


The Rules of Disclosure

by JoelMiller



Category: Life Is Strange (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I love Nathan a lot and I want him to be redeemed, M/M, Mental Instability, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Some Humor, and italics without a doubt, and m dashes, bc I am a shit writer just trying to fake it till I make it, but let's not talk about that, expect incorrect uses of commas, i mean technically i've already failed, im doing Gods work, im gonna try to stick to canon wish me luck, im taking a hammer and fiXING THE FUCKING CANON, lets hope i dont fuck this up, since i made some people live after the storm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2018-04-16
Packaged: 2018-11-10 02:28:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoelMiller/pseuds/JoelMiller
Summary: After the storm hits and leaves a path of devastation in it's wake, Warren decides that it's time for closure. Time for shutting  wounds and opening new doors, for attempting to come to terms with what happened and trying to stay grounded against overwhelming loss — and returning back to Blackwell after several weeks of reconstruction seems like the best possible way to start.But this is the town of Arcadia bay, and not everything is as easy as at it seems.





	1. Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, uh, hello. Not exactly sure what the hell im doing but I've been planning this for a few weeks and I want to share it with the world (and also the games ending literally did no justice for Nathan and im rlly salty abt it). 
> 
> This fic takes place a few weeks after the storm. Obviously, I had to change around a few things, such as how bad the destruction of the town was (If I followed how it was in the game, everyone would be dead and then the plot to this would be scrapped nice) and what happened to Max and Chloe, but that's the great thing about fics! Imagination prevails whoop.
> 
> Max's choices (like Kate living or dying, or Frank living or dying, stuff like that) will be uncovered as the story unfolds!! since im too lazy to name all her choices rn. 
> 
> ANYWHO, most of the content for this is based on theories and unused audios from the game, but generally speaking, I'm going to _**try**_ to stick as close to canon as I can get.
> 
> I'm really excited for the possibilities this story can hold, and I hope you enjoy it!

* * *

 

  **Prologue**

It began with the faint pitter-patter of rain, droplets bouncing off roofs and cascading down buildings, forming puddles in potholes that marked the roads. The residents of Arcadia Bay had initially thought nothing of it, only taking a moment to acknowledge the downpour before resuming whatever mundane task had been occupying majority of their attention; drinking, cleaning, partying, homework.

It came out from right under their noises, like a ghost, a predator waiting to strike on prey, and steadily, it built up to a thunderous chaos, so loud that it began to _really_ grab people's attention. The sky turned charcoal, a golden streak cracking through the clouds and promising nothing but the worse of outcomes as it lit up the sky in with an unforgiving howl, the winds driving the rain faster, harder, stronger than it had ever before.

And then, as if stuck in a crazed, blinding rage, the storm suddenly bestowed winds so strong that things started to break from their roots, shattering the earth beneath and propelling mud and grass like shrapnel. It ripped through trees like paper, tearing apart the landscape like it had some sort of vendetta, ruthlessly letting rain plummet from the sky like bullets, and forging puddles within the cracks in the pavement.

It became relentless, striking fear into people’s hearts, and on that day, amidst the screams of terror and the urge to flee, some lost their minds.

Others? They lost much, _much_ more.

 

* * *

 

**Seven Weeks Later: November 27th**

"On October 11th, small town Arcadia Bay was hit by an unforgiving storm. With great efforts, and help from all around the state, it's on its seventh week of rebuilding, and it has been a continuous, ongoing success. As proof of that, the infamous _Blackwell Academy_ will be reopening tomorrow, welcoming it's doors to new and old students, so we wish luck to everyone who will be attending, and hope the rest of the school year does you justice. As always, if you have any information on the many residents of Arcadia Bay who are still missing, contact 503-888—"

Warren pulls the keys out of the ignition with shaky hands, silencing the radio as he steps out of his car. It's mid-day, the sun high and creating a gradient sky full of different shades of blue, and the school grounds are packed with people swinging back and forth from the parking lot to the dorms in order to set up their rooms. Students that he's never seen before step out of cars with friends, joking — laughing loud, joyous laughs that make Warren ease up a bit. And then there are other faces, faces he can recognize, and they have a ghost of a smile playing on their lips, but he can't tell whether it's from the contagious giggles or if they're glad to be back.

It occurs to him right then and there that he can just _leave_. Get back into his car and haul ass, part ways with Blackwell without so much as a single glance. But he promised that he'd return and finish the rest of the school year for those who no longer could, and with a heavy sigh that speaks more words than he realizes, he's pulling his luggage out from the car and heading for the courtyard.

Flashes. Clicks. Shouts. The Press are loud and obnoxious, yelling out things that Warren can't seem to make out. They're up close and personal with Blackwell, located across the stretch of lawn from where he's standing, pushing against each other like animals to get the perfect shot. Ahead of them, Principle Wells is stationary behind a podium, probably speaking fondly of the school's re-establishment, but Warren doesn't focus on what he's droning on about through the microphone, instead taking a moment to let his eyes roam over the school.

Considering what had happened, the school looks relatively okay. It seemed newer, though, fresher, and had a different shade of brown covering the exterior walls. He notes that the windows look newly put in as his eyes travel over the building and eventually flicker down to where it touches the grass, instantly noticing how the graffiti that was once there had been covered up.

The only things that had really been completely destroyed by the storm were the Two Whales (which was currently undergoing reconstruction), a couple of buildings that resided close to the beach, and a few dozen houses or so — including Warrens. Blackwell and the rest of the town had thrived through it, only suffering small things, in Blackwell's case being a chunk of its ceiling and a few holes in the dormitories. 

But the real casualties?— _the real loss?_ —It happened on the streets, where the storm blinded drivers, and knocked down trees, and sent poles and blocks of cement flying.

Warren blinks, shaking the thought out of his head with a shaky breath, just in time to catch a glimpse of the school doors opening. A tall, broad-shouldered man slips through the exit, and it takes him a moment to realize who it is.

Sean Prescott.

Warren feels an icy chill run down his spine at the sight of him. His expression is hardened and almost _flat_ —harsh lines outlining his features with vigor—and his hair is pulled back, probably held in place by gel. A dark brown, knee-length coat is thrown over a very expensive looking suit, and a briefcase hangs loosely by his side, knuckles turning paper white as a result of his rock-hard grip on the handle.

The Press immediately jump at him, the roars growing louder as flashes and clicks go off at record speed, all of them fighting like wolves for his attention. He doesn't even look phased at the near instantaneous spotlight, upholding his plain expression as his eyes waver between Principle Wells and the Press.

_"Mr. Prescott! Mr. Prescott! How is your family coping with Nathan's disappearance?"_

_"What are you planning on doing to find your son? Or any others?"_

_"More and more people are moving into Pan Estates, will you plan to expand the branch?"_

Warren's suddenly uncomfortable, his eyes darting everywhere but the scene in front of him. He's grown nervous, and anxious, and terrified, and he doesn't know _why_. So he does the only thing he can do—the only thing he has control of—and swallows the lump in his throat before continuing his trek to the dorms, pretending not to notice the feeling of eyes watching him as he leaves.

 

* * *

 

Warren is wedged in between Trevor and Dana, with Kate and Stella directly across from him, as they huddle together in his dorm room. His furniture had already been there before he arrived, so he had just finished settling in about an hour ago, and that was when Kate had texted everyone, suggesting that they all hang out since they he hadn't seen each other in what felt like forever — save for the various Skype calls, of course. Warren agreed, not having the heart to say no, and offered his room as their meet up place.

The sun is now touching the horizon, sky full of oranges and yellows and reds, and a slight breeze is coming in through the open window and allowing fresh air to filter through the room.

"So, how has everyone been?"

Outside, the ambient background noise of hammers and the clatter of wood piles can be heard, the beeping of the bulldozer matching the beat of Warren's pulse. It's the sound of reconstruction. Of rebuilding. Of making amends.  But it’s also a sound that he’s grown use to, as it’s been something that he’s been hearing all day.

"I've been okay," Stella's the first to reply to Kate's inquiry, "though, when I told my mom that I'd be returning to Blackwell, she almost lost it."

Trevor snorts, bitterly, lowly. "Fucking tell me about it. My dad went nuts, said that this town is bad luck or some shit." He pauses, eyes flickering to the window as a construction worker yells something across the yard before refocusing his attention back on the group, "but I couldn't just _not_ come back, not when..." He lifts a single shoulder and plays with the sleeves of his hoodie, all pairs of eyes staring as he proceeds to hang his head.

"Fuck. He's still missing too, you know?" Trevor's hands clench into fists. "I...I feel like if I was with Justin at the time that I could've—"

"Hey, don't do that. Blaming yourself won't get you anywhere." Dana interrupts softly, reaching over Warren to place a hand on Trevor's forearm as he brings his knees to his chest and swallows thickly. He looks different like that, all wrapped up in a fetal position. Vulnerable. Younger almost.

Warren plays with his fingers in his lap, letting the conversation resume in front of him with little to no involvement in it. He can hear the soft laugh of Kate, and the hushed voices of Dana and Stella, and the sniffles that emerge from Trevor, but it's all faded into background noise. Nothing sticks, not really. It all just blends together and becomes indistinctive.

His finds that his gaze falls to the floor, and the color of the carpet reminds him about his days in the hospital. The storm had done a number on him, and the last thing he could recall was the Two Whales Diner caving around him and a concrete block pinning him down, air sucked out of his lungs as his whole world turned black. Waking up had been one of the worst experiences of his life, because it felt like complete and utter _hell_. His whole body felt like it had been torn in half and poorly put back together, and when he managed to open his eyes, the fluorescent lights above had been too bright for him to handle. 

He remembers his father arriving from his trip out of town, knee-deep in tears at the knowledge that Warren was okay. He remembers various cards and different colored balloons piling up in the corner of the room, all filled with cliché things like _'get well soon!'_ and _'you're in our prayers'_. He remembers bad food, the smell of rubber gloves, and sleepless nights. Remembers the pain that randomly shot up his body if he moved the wrong way, the way his head hurt so bad that sometimes he passed out, and the times he'd wake up in a pile of sweat thinking that the storm wasn't over.

"...you even listening? _Warren!"_ A nudge on his shoulder startles him back to the present, and his head snaps up to be met with Stella's worried expression.

"You haven't spoken a word since we got here. You okay?" There's something there, something like pity embedded within the tones of her voice, and for a second he's angry at that. _Unnecessarily so_ , he realizes, but then it vanishes just as fast as it comes, and suddenly he's refraining a frown.

"Yeah, I'm just...tired. I haven't sleep properly in like a week."

They all look unconvinced at that, like Warren had just told them the most absurd thing and expected them to believe it, which causes him to shy away from their glances. He feels the heat rising to his cheeks, but not from anger, or flattery, or even just because he felt hot. It was from embarrassment, and uneasiness, and the way the spotlight had abruptly turned on him and made it the _Graham show_.

He shifts in his spot and moves farther away from Dana, feeling like her body heat was just adding to the fact that he was sweating pinballs, before a phone goes off and grabs everyone's attention, Warren inwardly sighing in relief at the timing.

It takes the briefest of seconds for everyone to realize it's Kate's, and she promptly reaches for the device, fiddling around with it for a bit before looking back up. "It's just Brooke. She said that she'll be here next week."

"Next _week?_ Why?" Warren isn't sure who asks that, but he doesn't care enough to figure it out.

"Family things."

There's a two second pause, and then, "I didn't know she was coming back?" Dana's eyebrows furrow. Warren looks at her, briefly, from behind his bangs, before resting his chin on his knees.

"Do you not want her to?" Stella raises a brow.

"What? Of course not! I just didn't think she wanted to stay here, in this _place_ , after what happened." Her voice catches. A breath. "It's just...we all lost friends, y'know? Justin's missing. Alyssa's..." Dana chews on her bottom lip, her face paling as she continues, "Alyssa's _gone._ But Brooke? She lost her _mom_. Imagine what that does to a person."

Warren looks away, suddenly finding the window the most interesting thing in the world. Recollections of Brooke calling him up when she got the news about her mom forced their way into his head, even though he tried to stop it. He can distinctly remember that she wasn't sobbing uncontrollably, or tripping on her words in shock, or desperately trying to breathe for air. In fact, she sounded _cold_. Distant. Barely there. And it had scared him. Tore a gash through his chest, heart plummeting all the way down to his stomach as she emotionlessly muttered words like _'dead'_ and _'devastated'_ and _'funeral'_.

"Anyone have a clue about who's coming back to Blackwell and who's not?" It's topic changer, started off by Trevor, and everyone eagerly grabs at it to avoid pressing on the subject of Brooke or Alyssa any longer.

"I know Logan isn't, at-least not yet. With Zach missing, I think he's...just not up for it." Dana absentmindedly plays with the phone in her hand, outstretching her legs so they're almost touching Kate's knees.

"Max isn't coming back either." Warren adds quietly, "She..." _had this look in her eyes that mirrored guilt and remorse when I said goodbye, and I was confused and upset because I didn’t know why she felt that way._ "I don't know. She seemed pretty shaken up. I think she's going to a different school in Portland, or maybe back to Seattle...she was fuzzy on the details."

"I'm really gonna miss her." Kate's voice is soft, gentle, and there's something on her face _—devastation?_ —but Warren is pretty sure he's the only one who catches it, since she quickly covers it up with a small, half-hearted smile, before carrying on to say, "I hope she's doing okay."

Several sounds of agreement sound off in tow, a conversation about Max picking up faster than Warren can comprehend it. It starts of with memories, some good, some bad, some awkward—god, she was just as awkward as Warren—, some alluding laughs. And then, the center of attention gets switched to other Blackwell students.

From what Warren can grasp from Dana's brief run down, Hayden's been distant from everyone since he'd been found on the highway a few days after the storm, so no one really knows if he's coming back. Luke, having lost his brother, isn't returning. Juliet, who's only coming back for Dana. Courtney, who insisted that returning will start her onto a path of closure.

And then,

"It's a mystery to me why Victoria is coming back. Y'know, considering the fact that Mr. Jefferson turned down the offer to remain at Blackwell and all." Dana voices aloud.

Across from him, Warren catches Kate tense up at the mention of her name, and he instantly knows that she's reliving what happened between the two.

"I mean, I was with Victoria when the missing persons list was issued, and when they called Taylor's name...she was really, really upset. But when they called _Nathan's_ name out? It was...It was," Dana trails off, shaking her head with a frown, trying to grasp onto words that are obviously slipping through her fingers, "She turned cold. Pushed me away and stormed out of the room." She sighs, looking towards the wall beside Warren's bed, a hard to read expression pulling at her features. "She tries to brush it off, but part of me think's she coming back because this is the last place she has of Nathan."

"Makes sense.” Stella says after a short stretch of silence, her voice carrying a weight, “This is the last place _a lot_ of us have of some people."

Warren pretends that the feeling that stirs in his chest isn’t there, and his gaze shifts to the window again.

Outside, the bulldozer has gone quiet.

 

* * *

 

 

The next morning, the hallways to the boys dorms are loud and full of activity — footballs being thrown across the hall, steam gushing out of the bathroom from the showers, and in the distance, Warren can hear a lawnmower going off. It's easy to tell the difference between the transferred students and the old ones, and the reason for that isn't the most welcoming, but at-least it lets Warren know who he has to eventually introduce himself to.

Warren's tired, and groggy, and the urge to go back to bed is so damn tempting that he almost turns on his heels and does so, but at the end of the day, he's still here on a scholarship, and no poor excuse of self-preservation and just _not wanting to do it_ will get rid of the fact, so he drags himself to the showers and gets ready, heading to class shortly after.

The hallways of Blackwell are still the same, but the floors are so shiny that Warren swears he can see his reflection when he looks down. The odor of fresh paint is pungent enough to make him scrunch up his nose, and the lockers are still dipped in that same boring color he remembers, but somehow they look newer against the wooden decor of the classrooms.

As he enters the main hallway, the monotone buzz of several-hundred voices hum like an orchestra of deadbeat droids, students hustling and bustling down the corridor and trying to find classrooms. Friends are greeting each other with a hug or a playful punch while others stand looking scared, and Warren studies the faces he doesn't know like he's afraid they'll be taken away by something horrible, too.

The worst part, though, are the walls. They're covered in the missing person's reports, scattered around in a fashion that mirrors Rachel Amber's flyers.

 _Rachel Amber._ _Once the_ ** _only_** _missing person in Arcadia._

It's hesitant, and done a few seconds too late, but he eventually steps closer to one of them, eyes scanning up and down the page rather bravely, trying to see if any progress was made since he last checked the list.

 

_**INFORMATION SHEET** _

If found or know whereabouts about any missing persons, contact _503-888-9578_

_~~Alyssa Anderson: missing~~   **Confirmed Dead**_

_~~Frank Bowers~~ : found, alive_

_~~Max Caulfield: missing~~  found, alive_

_Taylor Christensen: missing_

_~~Daniel DaCosta: missing~~    **Confirmed Dead**_

_~~Zara Hayloft: missing~~    **Confirmed Dead**_

_~~Mark Jefferson:~~ ~~missing~~  found, alive_

_~~Hayden Jones: missing~~  found, alive_

_David Madsen: missing_

_~~Eddie Parker: missing~~   **Confirmed Dead**_

_Nathan Prescott: missing_

_~~Chloe Price: missing~~ found, alive_

_Zachary Riggins: missing_

_~~Hannah Scott: missing~~   **Confirmed Dead**_

_~~Stacy Sprayberry: missing~~    **Confirmed Dead**_

_Justin Williams: missing_

 

A conclusive _no_ is what his answer is, and he glances back down to Justin's name one last time, running his hand over the letters. Warren doesn't know if there's hope anymore — for Justin, or David, or Zach, or Taylor, or even Nathan, because they're all more likely to be found under some of the buildings in town that are still undergoing clean up instead of alive and breathing and well — but he's holding out.

And maybe that's destructive, and a position he shouldn't put himself in, and is such a goddamn _stupid_ thing to do when he knows the likelihood of the outcome, but if he doesn't have any hope, who will?

His hand drops from the paper, and as he makes his way to his period one class, Principle Wells' voice cuts through the PA systems, muttering something related to the first day back and going on about an assembly that'll happen tomorrow, but Warren merely brushes his words off and waves to Ms. Grant as he enters a place that's comfortingly familiar: the science room.

He smiles, thinking about all the times he'd accidentally blown something up in here, or that time Justin actually stayed back after class to make stink bombs, or when Max helped him with a lab that he just _couldn't_ figure out, and—hell—he didn't know he could miss a _place_ so much.

The bell rings, and as he takes a seat and pulls out a notebook and a pencil, a thought occurs to him.

_I can do this._

 

* * *

 

Warren's walking out of the front doors of the school, textbook in one hand and rubbing at his droopy eyes with the other, when his phone vibrates and drags him back into the present, just in time for him to dodge a football.

"Shit, sorry!" He hears someone call in the background, but he's too busy reaching for his phone to really acknowledge it.

 **Kate 3:33 PM**  
Stop by my room when you can. I have something to give you.

 **You 3:33 PM**  
Jeez, that eager to see me, huh? What is it?

 **Kate 3:33 PM**  
Just come and you'll see

 **You 3:34 PM**  
Alright, be there in a few

 

Warren discards his phone in one of his pockets, hoisting his bag straps further up his shoulder as he makes his way towards the dorms.

After Ms. Grants class, the day was a blur, fueled only by the recharge that Warren had after drinking some coffee during lunch. The whole day felt surreal, or like a bad dream. Faces felt unfocused, and he couldn't count how many times he had turned around to say a joke to someone, or head over to someone's locker, before realizing they weren't there anymore. His heart dropped every time, and he'd look at a particular place in the school and memories would pop up. Some hurt, terribly so. Others didn't.

One of the only things that really stuck with Warren was the phone call that he had after period one with his dad, who worriedly tried to get his words out in a span of thirty seconds like that was all the time he had, babbling on about how he could always go home to their new house in Portland, and that he should visit often, and that therapy is always an option if Warren can't handle it. At first he found the ordeal ridiculous, with his father rambling on like that, but then he remembered that he's all his father had left and was almost ripped away from him, and could've easily perished with the rest of the Arcadians who weren't as lucky.

And then that feeling came; the one that's been with him since the storm. It invaded his body like it had a right to, intoxicating Warren's veins like a drug. He wanted it to stop, and, eventually, it did. It always does.

The day had pressed on, and—besides the project that was handed to him, and the five hundred word paragraph that's due on Friday for English class—the day was pretty uneventful, save for the part where Mrs. Hoida had given papers to Warren marked with _Victoria Chase_ 's name, kindly asking him to give the stack of white sheets to her since she hadn't showed up to class. Though immediately on edge, he just nodded and stuffed the papers into his bag, making a mental note to head over to her dorm room later.

"Hey, Kate." Warren smiles as she answers to his knock on the door, the bun on top of her head more unkempt than usual, with loose hairs roaming free. She greets him and opens the door wider, a shadow of a smile on her lips as she invites him inside. He steps forward with ease, and it isn't until the door shuts behind him that he's realizes that he's never actually been in Kate's room, even before after everything happened.

Suddenly, he doesn't know what to do with his hands, and he's shifting on one foot to the next like a complete _moron._

"So," Kate starts off, brushing past Warren and towards one of her unpacked boxes. "I was um, going through my things, y'know. Unpacking."

Warren nods comprehensively, bringing his textbook to his chest.

"And I..." Kate chews nervously on her lip, and her breath comes out shaky when she lets it go. "Let me just show you."

Warren furrows his eyebrows and takes a step forward in anticipation as she reaches into a suitcase, rummaging around for a bit before pulling something out.

He doesn't know why the shock hits him so hard—could probably knock him off his feet if it tried hard enough—but it does, and then he's looking between Kate's face and the item in her hand, because it's a damn _present,_ and it's rendered him profoundly speechless.

"When Alyssa's mom came to Blackwell to clear out her room, I went with her." Kate steps closer to Warren. "This was tucked away, under her bed, and it had your name on it." Her hand outstretches, the present brushing against his textbook.

"Alyssa...she bought this for you before she..." Her gaze drops then, and because her hand begins to go unsteady, Warren hesitantly takes the wrapped up item into his possession and carefully pushes her arms down.

He can feel his face paling as he runs his thumb over it, the air in the room feeling as though it's clogging in the back of his throat, knees beginning to feel unbelievably weak against the atmosphere of the room. They both know what this present is for, and the silence that engulfs them is so thick—so heavy and full of heartbreak and pain—that when Kate dares to speak,

_"Happy Belated Birthday, Warren."_

He breaks.

 

* * *

 

By the time Warren leaves Kate's room, it's well past 5 PM, and his eyes sting, his lips are chapped, and his hair sticks to his skin so prominently that it feels like it's suffocating him.

The hallways to the girls dorms are empty, but not quiet. He can hear music blasting from behind one of the doors, and a few laughs down the hall, and something that sounds like an action movie playing _somewhere_ , but it's all sounds that contribute to his growing headache.

He turns to leave, feet pointing in the direction of the exit, before something abruptly hits him, and before he can process what he's doing, he's pulling out Victoria's papers and knocking on her door rapidly.

He peers around the hall as he waits, foot tapping against the floor to the beat of the loud music, before he runs his hands through his hair. A few more moments pass by, and he stares at the door for so long that he _really_ considers just leaving the papers on the floor, but then the knob turns and the door swings open, Warren's posture straightening on instinct.

Victoria looks uncharacteristically restless, dressed in an over-sized hoodie and yoga pants, completely lacking any sort of empowerment and entitlement that she usually carries. It's odd, catching her hardened expression against the rays that beamed through the window, her flat features serving as a barrier that wouldn't let anything slip through.

"What do you want?" Her voice is no colder than normal, but her bite seems fiercer.

Behind her, her computer beeps, and she rolls her red-rimmed eyes and stalks towards it, leaving the door open for Warren. He stands there nervously, fiddling with the papers as he peers around her room.

He notices how unkempt and messy it is right off the bat, like someone had come in and thrashed the room for the hell of it. Her bed sheets are hanging off the bed, pillow tossed against the wall, and her books are aligned haphazardly on the shelves above her desk.

And it isn't until Warren see's the box on the floor marked  _**NATHAN**_ , his signature red jacket hanging over the side of it, that he decides to look away like he's prying in something that he shouldn't, clearing his throat at the realization he’s been quiet for too long. "You missed class today and Mrs. Hoida wanted me to give you the work."

Whether Victoria notices Warrens immediate discomfort or not is a mystery to him, because all she does is look at him briefly, letting her expression falter for just a second, before turning back to her computer. "Thanks. You can leave it on my desk."

Warren sucks in a breath, standing still for a moment before willing a step forward and shuffling to the wooden table beside her. He glances at her laptop screen as he makes his way over, noticing her playing with random buttons and trying to click on something that won't open, her side profile suggesting that her eyes are narrowed in irritation.

He places the papers on her desk, and then quietly, not exactly knowing why he says it, "Do you need help with that?"

Her eyes snap to him so quick that Warren steps back in surprise, her hands freezing over the mouse. "Did I ask for your help?"

She's bitter, and angry, and annoyed, and Warren would never admit it but he gets a little scared. "I-I'm sorry. I just saw you struggling and I—"

"Thanks for your concern, but if anyone really cared about, like, _anything ever_ , everyone would be out there looking for all the missing people, like Na—" She abruptly cuts herself off, and her expression goes blank again, probably realizing that her outburst has no correlation to what they're talking about, before she looks at Warren as if she's looking _through_ him. "Never mind. Just get out."

The silence that fills the air isn't what Warren expected it to feel like when he entered Victoria Chases room. It isn't awkward, or uncomfortable, or lame, or anxiety inducing. It's disheartening, it's draining, it's terrifying.

He shifts, holding back the words he wants to say about how she doesn't have to do everything alone—that if she just stopped treating people like they weren't worth her time that she could obtain some sort of support—and instead opts to go a different route. "Okay." A pause. "And I'm truly sorry, Victoria. About Taylor. About Nathan. I mean it."

He catches an emotion clustering in her eyes, but Warren's already heading towards the door before he can put a name to what it is.

And then,

_"Wait!"_

He freezes, looking over his shoulder to see Victoria standing, the desk chair pushed back slightly.

"You're," She shuts her eyes, and when they reopen, she's hanging her head back and looking towards the ceiling, muttering curses to what Warren is assuming is the Gods above, before looking back at him pointedly and swallowing, as if it physically pains her to say the next words, "Ugh, you're right, okay? I _do_ need help." She gestures largely to the laptop behind her. "I...I got an email last night and the files won't open."   

Warren cracks an amused smile, turning to fully face her. "Did you miss an entire day of classes for an _email?"_

"No." She scowls, and then her features quickly turn soft, “I was... _Nathan's room—_ " Her voice cracks, and she inhales sharply, gaze flickering to the box of Nathan's belongings on the floor, "They needed extra hands to help clean it out." A brief flash of something pulls at her expression, and then it’s gone, Victoria now seeming to have her fair share of shifting uncomfortably as she taps her nails against her forearm.

“...Oh.”

 _Fucking swell answer there, dude._  

The box with Nathan’s name, coupled with the appearance of Sean Prescott, suddenly makes sense, and he just nods to himself in conformation before pushing some of his hair out of his face. "Anyway, I, uh, sorta gotta head back to my dorm to finish some homework, but if you forward the email to me, I'll make sure to take a look at it when I'm done."

It takes her a moment to realize Warren’s speaking, but she eventually nods, and Warren gives her a little wave and a small smile as he exits. Unsurprisingly, she doesn't return it, but he does hear her mutter a _thank you_ , and it's more progress than he thought he'd ever get.

 

* * *

 

The bold, bright letters on Warren's clock read **11:08 PM** when he sets his pencil down, the soreness of his wrists dawning on him unexpectedly. His hand balls into a fist before he relaxes it, shaking it out slightly with a groan as he goes to stand up. Warren knows he has four more days to finish his paragraph, but English isn't his strong suit, so his rough draft ended up taking more time out of his evening than expected, the entire page full of crossed out words and arrows, thoughts scribbled out on the outer margins.

He stumbles over his shoes as he trudges to the closet, palms going up to rub his eyes as he grabs a random pair of pajama bottoms before changing, now topless as he makes his way over to his laptop that's resting on his bed, his promise to Victoria still nagging at his brain. He plops down, momentarily reminiscing in the comfort of his sheets, before placing it on his lap and turning it on, instantly going to the internet tab and logging in to his Gmail account.

He spots Victoria's forwarded email immediately, and with a yawn, he clicks on it.

There are five links in the email, four of which open to random websites, but the attachment at the top—the first one—doesn't respond when he clicks on it. Warren tries to double click and _open in new tab_ to fix the problem, but to no avail nothing pops up on the screen, and he furrows his eyebrows as he inspect the page further.

He leans back, resting his head against the wall, drumming his fingers against the touch pad of the laptop.

All the other attachments on the email will open on command, but the first one won't. Almost like it's—

_Wait._

He pauses.

"It's  _encrypted?_ " His eyes widen as the realization smacks him in the face, and he scoffs at the fact that he didn't get it earlier. He cracks his knuckles, feeling like some sort of undercover spy, before typing away at the keyboard furiously. He enters in html so swiftly that it's almost like he's studies these lines of code like a book, and a few minutes later, he switches back to the email screen and mutters a "here we go." before clicking the attachment with crossed fingers.

For one second of anticipation, of silence and contained breathing, there's nothing.

And then,

Three files pop out of _no where_ , causing Warren to pull back from the screen in a state of shock before collecting himself. The first two attachments are filled with pictures and coordinates, the same dark brown, suburban house photographed over and over from different angles. Warren studies them, swearing he's seen it somewhere, before he hovers over the last file name; a video titled: **IMPORTANT.**

A debate brews in his head, one part saying he shouldn't open it, the other urging him to press down on the mouse and let it play. He's always been one of morality, of respecting people's privacy and personal lives, but all of this looks like some seriously heavy shit and—

Too late. He's already clicked on the video.

_No turning back now._

The screen starts out black, quiet, motionless, and for a minute Warren thinks he's clicked on the wrong thing, but suddenly there's loud breathing and a visual comes up. It's hard to make it out at first, blurry, out of focus and distorted, but then Warren can see the person's chest and neck, face out of shot as they play around with what he's assuming—based on the crappy quality and the shifty movements—is the phone they're recording this on.

Beside him, Warren can feel something vibrate—probably his phone—but he doesn't reach for it. All he does is strain his attention to the monitor, where the person in it has their back turned towards him, taking controlled steps towards a single chair that's in the middle of the room. He can make out dirty blonde hair, a lengthy frame, and bruised hands, and when the person turns around to sit on the chair, Warren feels nauseous.

He can instantly catch the familiar blue eyes, and the strand of hair that always stuck out on him, and the sharp nose, and the pale face, and there's something, _something_ , that runs through Warren's veins because _that's-_

_"Vic, it's Nathan."_

Oh God.

Oh—

 

_fuck._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the extremely long first chapter...I kinda got carried away and didn't know what to erase bc i was indecisive so yeah. Kudo's and comments are welcomed and appreciated, and thank you sm for reading my stuff friends!! <3


	2. Between the Lines

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christ, guys. I did _not_ anticipate the overwhelming response to the first chapter, and I’m so glad that you guys are enjoying what’s happening so far!!
> 
> I do apologize tremendously for taking 2 weeks to update. Not only was I super anal and worked on this chapter for like a week, but last week was just hectic as hell because of my prom, my graduation, my report card pick up and Canada day all bunched together within a span of 5 days, so I've been dying. But it's good to be back I'll tell you that!!
> 
> Anyways, all I can really say is _strap in, folks,_ and get ready for trash writing made by the number one trash bag (me) because the things I have in store for this fic are going to drive you nuts. 
> 
> (Also: Happy 4th of July!!)

_Vic, It’s Nathan_.

The words make Warren blank out for a second, and he instantly wonders if he’s dreaming; wonders if what he’s seeing is some delusional hallucination brought out from a combination of sleepless nights and the stress of being back. But when he grasps onto the laptop—an object that binds him to reality—the dreadful realization that _of course it's real, it has to be_ steadily comes to him.

“I...where do I even fucking _start?”_ Nathan’s voice trails slowly when he speaks, like the action is using up too much of his energy and his words are unwilling to take flight. His eyes are wide, glazed over, and he's looking straight into the camera, but not really. He starts to mutter disorganized words, rambling on about something under his breath as his foot swings back to kick the leg of the chair, hands aggressively tugging at his hair as if he’s trying to get a grip.

Warrens gaze reflexively roams, trailing up Nathan’s shoulders that are curving in, arms flexing against the black, long-sleeved shirt that he’s wearing, before his eyes move over Nathan’s heavily bruised knuckles — dark hues of blues and purples contrasting against his pale skin.

“I guess I should tell you that I have no idea why I’m making this. I think...I think it’s to give you closure, or whatever. You deserve that.” Nathan rests his hands on the armrests and looks away, his attention caught by something that's out of frame, before he looks down to his lap.

“I wish I could tell you what’s going on because maybe this would make more sense, but I can’t, and shit, Vic, I’m so sorry. So,  _so_ fucking sorry. I know a lot of questions need answering. I just... _fuck_ —” He shuts his eyes and pushes his head against the headrest of the chair, his adams apple bobbing in this throat as he swallows hard.

He looks like he's bracing himself, neck stretched as his gaze finds the ceiling, jaw shifting in a rapid movement as a noise follows in tow. It’s small, childish, like a... _whimper?_ and it goes off at the same time Nathan’s right hand suddenly spasms. His eyebrows knit together, and instead of trying to control it, he balls his fist up and slams it against the arms of the chair, a dull  _clunk_ reverberating off the walls.

Shit, that must  _hurt._

“For fucks sake." Warren hears him mutter harshly, the aggravated growl that escapes him sounding heavy and hollow and unsteady, “Get yourself together. You’re fucking fine, Nathan.  _Stop it_.” Nathan’s fingers begin tapping against the armrest of the chair in the eerie silence, and he looks down to his hand very briefly, considering it, studying it, before shifting in his spot and looking back up.

The tapping persists, and Warren marks it as a nervous tic, focusing on his words instead.

“I know some crappy video isn't gonna do much, but if shit gets out, I need you to know that I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.  _I swear_. You gotta believe me, Vic. I didn’t—I didn’t  _want—_ ” His breathing quickens, but somehow it drops an octave lower, the noises sounding throaty and ragged when it escapes his mouth, like it’s harsh enough to scar his lungs.

Warren’s eyebrows furrow, and he starts playing with his hands just to have something to do, a single question nestling it way into his central thoughts:  _What is Nathan talking about?_

“Do you remember when we were kids?”

It’s abrupt, confusingly so, and filled with so much blatant sorrow that Warren has to lean back a bit because it feels like a blow to the face. “When we,” Nathan lets out a noise between a laugh and a scoff, exhaled by parted lips in such a way that it can be mistaken for a short pant, “When we use to play that stupid fucking game? The one where one of us would be a pilot and the other would be stranded on an 'island' trying to figure out different ways to be rescued? I use to think that my favorite tactic was the coolest. Seems like so fucking long ago since either of us were that happy.” His voice wavers towards the end, sounding unsure and almost... _scared?_ and it makes Warren's stomach flop.

“God, we were fucking idiots, huh? Thought we were gonna take on this shitty world _._ What a dumb fucking mindset." He scoffs. "But at least one of us turned out okay, yeah?” He manages to crack a smile; a small, wobbly one, but it’s still a smile, and it looks strange on him. It’s something that Warren’s  _never_ seen against the harshness of his features, and if it weren't for Nathan’s eyes being so dead, and cold, and icy blue, and  _empty_ , he would’ve mistaken that gesture for joy.

“I...I guess I’m just trying to say goodbye.” Nathan’s right leg starts bouncing up and down, and he bites the inside of his cheek, and his face turns ghostly white, and his fingers are still  _tapping, tapping, tapping_. “That’s how people do it, right? Start off with some dumb bullshit about happiness? I don’t know." His head drops, and the arm that isn't tapping goes up to rub at his eyes. "Maybe if you look closer, or in between the lines, or fucking  _whatever,_ you can make something else out of this.”

There's something pulling at Nathan’s features then, something  _needy_ , something  _desperate_ , and Warren has to look away in discomfort to focus on something else—something that isn’t this goddamn heavy, something that isn’t making him uneasy—before having the bravery to fixate his attention back to the monitor.

“I know I’m a fuck up, and that I screwed up a lot between us, but you helped me in more ways than you know, and I…” His head falls again, his shoulders looking like they’re fighting to support the weight of it as he shuffles his feet against the floor.

“Forget it.” His body slags, but only for a moment, because then Nathan is abruptly standing to his feet, resentment and guilt and  _something_ washing over his face as he walks so close to the camera that Warren can see the freckles that sprinkle over his nose and cheeks. His blue eyes are intense against the glare of the device, filled with a glistening twinkle, and then his gaze drops towards the ground, a deep breath escaping him; one that makes his whole body deflate.

His last words make Warren’s blood run cold, and it isn’t because it’s something volatile, or harsh, or horrendous. It’s because it’s a  _promise_. A stone cold, bone chilling promise of  _I won’t be here anymore_ and  _I’m not coming back_ ; the words  _you can live without me, I know you can_ and  _I hope you know that I cared about you_ filling the empty spaces.

“Don’t forget about me, Vic. I’ll see you on the other side.”

And then the feed cuts off, and the silence reaches a level of unbearableness so high that Warren's leg starts involuntarily shaking. He feels sick, and tired, and anxious, all at once, and he shuts the lid of the laptop and pushes it away so quick that it might as well have had the same effect on him as fire would to his skin.

The shock and confusion in the air hangs heavy, and it’s an awfully substantial weight that Warren is struggling to hold up. He's trying,  _he's trying_ , to make something, fucking  _anything_ , out of what he just saw, but his mind, one that could solve complex science equations in record time, one that could throw a presentation together in under two hours and still get by with an A, one that plays video games with strategies and caution, keeps drawing blanks.

All his life, he’s known what to do. Who to call. How to act. Create his own solutions and figure out ways to diffuse the problem.

But now? He feels  _useless_ , and it’s a sensation that he in no way desires.

He runs his hands through his disheveled hair, and just because he wants something else to focus on, his eyes dart towards the clock, the  **12:25 AM**  that's showcased in the darkness of his room making him wince, body propelling him towards an anxiety that he doesn’t need as he falls back onto his bed.

Nathan’s an asshole, and a jerk, and has no idea how to treat people like  _actual people_ , but after seeing that video, Warren can’t even manage to gather enough apathy to convince himself that he doesn’t give shit. Sure, Warren hates him because he's conceited, and a megalomaniac, and generally the piece of shit that Warren had hated so much that his skin could boil at the thought of him—they've even been in a fist fight.  _Twice_ —but hell, there was more human to Nathan in that video than anything he's been exposed to before, and it uncomfortably bores a whole in his chest.

Warren wants to scream into his pillow, or throw something against the wall, or just do anything to get rid of the restraint in his chest that’s stopping him from  _fucking doing anything goddamn it._

But he can’t, and it’s pathetic.

He knows he should call someone, get the video to a person of federal authority **—** like his uncle, who works at the F.B.I station in Portland **—** but somehow,  _some way,_ he talks himself out of it, because the video doesn’t make  _sense._

There has to be a reason why Nathan sent this to Victoria instead of the police—why he looks alarmingly pale and shaken up in the video—and the ideas that spring out of control in Warren’s head make him feel like he can’t breathe.

Because if Nathan recorded that and had sent it  _yesterday,_ that means he wasn’t killed by the storm.

It means he’s alive.

But judging by the way he had been talking—like he was finalizing a goodbye, like his life was in danger and he had hope dangling on a string that was slipping through his fingers—Nathan solidly believed he wasn’t going to be kicking any longer.

And the reason he hasn’t been found? That’s the gaping question.

 _Fuck_.

 

* * *

 

Warren didn’t know when or how sleep had took control of him, but it had, and by now, he’s experienced some of the worst ways to wake up. The sounds of his father crying just right down the hall from his room at home when his mother had died, sobs muffled from the walls between them, an icy cut running along the insides of his abdomen where a feeling of something missing nestled its way between his ribs. That sharp stab in his chest that jolts him out of his slumber, a concoction of panic and fear wrapping around his body and dousing him in cold sweat — perhaps due to a bad dream, or something else entirely. The explosions of thunder erupting in greater pulses of discordant and demented noise, nightmares about the storm clinging onto his subconscious and refusing to let go until it completely breaks him.

And what wakes him this time? It’s the screams. The ones that permanently replay itself in his head when it’s too quiet. The one’s full of terror and downright  _dread_. The ones that he had heard before the world twisted and went out with a  ** _bang!_** , vision clouded as he felt his body crushing beneath something and—

Beady brown eyes shoot open as a gasp escapes Warrens mouth, bed sheets entangled between his legs as a layer of sweat glistens against his body. His chest is heaving, momentarily shaken up by fear as if it bounds him with shackles at his ankles, and everything feels strangely unreal, like he’s in a movie and watching things go by while he sits there, unmoving on his bed.

He has to shut his eyes and get himself to remember—remember, _remember_ —where he is, taking controlled breaths to get his body to relax, before deciding that he doesn’t want to go back to bed for the remaining five minutes that he has before his alarm goes off.

It’s an effort to pull the covers off of him, limbs feeling like they solidified into stone over night as he hoists himself upright, the events of last night flooding into his system in such overwhelming waves of urgency that he grows dizzy with its impact.

The email. Nathan’s message.  _Victoria._

_He needs to find Victoria._

And there’s no pause after that thought—no second of hesitancy and worry—because Warren knows with everything in him that something isn’t  _right_ , and suddenly, he’s more alert and awake than he’s ever been at 7:30 in the morning.

His movements are quick, hands flying and grabbing at things he assumes he needs, fingers clawing at clothes to throw on. It's like everything is shifting into fast forward mode, varying degrees of annoyance and frustration hitting him as he struggles to throw his shirt on, one hand packing his bag while the other roughly combs through his hair, his feet creating a beat against the floor as he barrels out of his room and leaves the destruction of a tornado behind him.

And It's half way up to the second floor—the girls dorms—when Warren realizes he'd forgotten to brush his teeth and take a shower, but he begrudgingly pushes it aside because it isn't the most important thing he has to deal with. 

“Warren! Warren, what the hell?” Someone tugs at his arm as he enters the girls’ floor and zooms down the corridor, eyes frantic as he looks for a certain blonde haired girl, movements freezing at the familiar voice of Stella, who’s face is etched with confusion and worry when he spins around to look at her.

“Have you seen Victoria?” The question comes out so casually—so seemingly nonsensical because he hadn’t thought it through—that it almost surprises him, and by the look on Stella’s face, she undergoes that same sense of shock.

“Victoria? Why are you looking for her?”

“Just…” Make up a lie.  _Make up a lie_. “...Stuff, y’know?”

Wow.

Great.

Fucking _fantastic._

“Uh huh…” She raises a brow and crosses her arms over her chest, scrutinizing Warren under a gaze that almost feels painful. “But since you’re looking for her because of something so important, like  _stuff_ , you should probably know that she isn’t here.”

Warren blinks, retracting his body like the news had physically hit him in the face. “What?”

“Yeah, she left this morning with her mom. Some family emergency or something.” Her hand waves dismissively as she shifts her weight onto one foot, “Dana wouldn’t shut up about it earlier.”

And now Warren  _really_  doesn’t know what to do, because passing on what he knew to Victoria was supposed to solve all of this. It was supposed to give him answers, tell him how to go about doing anything, give him insight on why the video even exists.

And that couldn't happen if she wasn’t  _here._

Fuck.  _Fuck, fuck, fuck_.

“Whoa, Warren. Are you okay? You’re looking a little green.” He feels Stella grab his wrist and shake it a little, and he looks over at her with a hard gaze.

_Should he go to the police?_

“I’m fine.” Warren replies  _way_ too quickly, and she seems to have caught that just as fast as he does, because she tilts her head and parts her lips like she has something to say, so before she can manage to get a word out, he hastily adds on, “Do you, uh, know where I can get her number or something?”

She pauses, dropping her hand from Warren’s and looking momentarily speechless. “I think Dana has her number, but she’s already at the assembly.”

“Assembly?” It’s Warren’s turn to knit his brows, voice coming out in an odd waver that he hopes Stella doesn’t catch.

“Yeah? The mandatory one that Principle Wells was talking about over the PA yesterday? A Response Unit from Portland is coming in today to teach students what to do in an event of a natural disaster.”

Oh,  _that_ announcement, the one Warren purposefully wasn’t listening to. “Right…” He breaks eye contact, looking in the direction of the exit. “What time does it start?”

“In uh…” Stella pulls one of her sleeves back, looking down at her watch, eyes widening in slight panic, “In five minutes?!”

He goes to say something, but all that’s emitted from his mouth is a startled gasp as she clasps her fingers around his wrist and yanks him forward, Warren having no choice but to follow in tow as she begins to drag him out the door and towards Blackwell.

 

* * *

 

The assembly is being held in the gym, and the second Warren had entered, the pungent smell of sweat and shoes clouded his senses and made him turn his face away for a second. The noises of the entire student body buzzing in one room had hit him harder than he expected it to, and people had shot looks of annoyance and heaved out disgruntled noises as Stella blatantly pushed her way through the crowd of students with Warren in tow.

Nonetheless, that's how he's landed up here: sitting on the bleachers beside Stella, with Dana and Trevor in the row above them. He's peering around the gym as the three converse with one another, watching closely as the Response Unit sets up on the gymnasium floor. Luckily, Stella wasn’t wrong about Dana having Victoria’s number, and Warren was thankful that Dana didn’t glaringly express her skepticism when he asked for it, because it made everything a whole lot easier.

But now, Warren’s biting nervously on his nails, praying to God that his friends don’t notice that something is completely off with him as he tries to think of an excuse to leave.

He hates lying to them—keeping a secret locked away where no one can reach—but he has to call Victoria, or make sense of the video, or do  _something_ , because it’s unsettling him to a point where it’s practically the only thing he can think about.

“I’m sorry I’m late. Alice was being picky this morning and wouldn’t eat her food unless it came from right out of my hand.” Kate’s voice is soft as she runs up the stairs of the bleachers, so soft that Warren almost doesn't catch it over the mix of the disorienting buzz of the other students talking and the nerves that are washing over his body, but he can tell that she looks more well rested and put together than she has in weeks when he looks over, the brief relief that pulsates through him coming from the acknowledgement that his friend is slowly but surely getting better.

Him and Stella both scoot over to make room for Kate, and she offers a tight-lipped smile and sighs before plopping down on the seat next to Warren.

“So, you guys ready for this kickass assembly or what?” Warren deadpans, torso pivoting to peer over the group with his best poker face.

“Ready as I’ll ever be.” Trevor quips from behind him, nudging Warren with his knee.

Stella rests her elbow on her knees, leaning forward to set her chin in the palm of her hand. “I just hope they teach us something useful.”

Trevor leans forward then, head hovering over Warren’s and Kate’s shoulders. “Yeah, hopefully. If not, we’re gonna have our tails between our legs and thumbs up our asses—”

“Trevor!” Dana flicks him on the head, and Trevor rears back and chuckles, swatting her hands away. There’s a certain glow emitting from him that wasn’t there two days ago, something playful, something _joyful_ , but Warren doesn’t have time to relish in the moment, because then there’s a loud tapping noise that echoes through the gym’s speakers, and an auditory sound that reaches a pitch so high that it makes the entire student body recoil and shut their ears.

“Settle down, settle down.” It’s Principle Wells’ voice that bellows through the speakers, and Warren can see him standing near the group of Response Unit workers, all of them looking towards him as he tries to put a leash on the student body, everyone jumping into action and rushing to the bleachers at his order. The hum of voices that filled the area slowly dulls into nothing but silence, and friends hush each other and force their gazes upfront.

Principle Wells then proceeds to make a speech, and Warren doesn’t like that it’s one that rubs him the wrong way. It sounds scripted, and forced, and full of so much fake empathy as he mutters out words like  _‘loss’_ and ‘ _heartbreak’_ and  _‘tragedy’_ that Warren heats up for a second, fists tightening in his lap as he fidgets in his seat.

Some cynical part of him wonders if Principle Wells truly even cares—if anything he’s rambling on about is coming from the heart—because he was one of the only few people who didn’t lose someone close to him. He lost students, and colleagues, and people who didn’t mean  _shit_ , and the envy that washes over Warren makes his face heat up and leaves him wanting to jump out of his skin because  _why is he getting angry over something like this?_

He blinks, his line of sight reeling and in and out like the hazy output of an unfocused camera, Principles Wells’ words feeling as though they hang in the air above him instead of actually entering his ears, white noise creating a blank slate of nothing and leaving him clueless as Wells’ mouth moves but nothing comes out.

He’s felt this before. That sense of downright anger. The bubbling sensation that nestled its way into his chest and built a home.

It’s the feeling.

It’s back.

 _Again_.

His leg begins bouncing up and down, field of view narrowing to almost nothing, fists clenching so hard he can swear his nails are puncturing his skin. He’s only ever felt this way a grand total of five times, so he doesn’t exactly know what to do, but he settles for the idea of focusing on his breathing, because that's what’ll work, right?

_Right?_

Right.

He doesn't know how long he’s been zoned out—how long he’s been stuck in that space between reality and something else—but what he does know is that when his hearing comes back and his vision finally centers, the Response Unit is already speaking to the student body, with one of them holding the mic, and the others in different positions around the gym.

He clasps his hands around each other to stop them from shaking, discreetly peering around the area to make sure no one had noticed his episode, before another wave of relief floods him and causes him to lean back a little and his attention turns to the female speaker in front of him, who's pacing back and forth. She's giving students a lecture about the strategies one can use to survive in hostile situations, or what to do when one has severely limited supplies. She teaches them what signs to look for, how to act under different scenarios, and where to go if something gets too dangerous — all while keeping her voice steady in the back of her throat, gaze roaming over the crowd like she wants this advice to stick.

She then carries on to communication, and stresses that not all sources are guaranteed to work.

“Morse code is the best way to make contact. It’s practically your best friend.” She says; an ultimatum. And for some reason, Warren straightens up at the words, elbows resting on his knees and dropping from where he had them balled up. His uncle had taught him about Morse code before, but only very little, and it mostly pertained to listening to sounds over a radio.

“It’s fairly easy to learn, and popular to contrary belief, many people still use it. But the best thing about it? It can be transmitted in a number of different ways.” She waves her team over, and they all get into a line that runs parallel to the gym, each one of them carrying something different.

She starts to name off different ways to use Morse code, and he learns that it’s commonly used in the form of flashing lights or through reflections, and can also be used by the switching of touch or pressure, like tugging on rope.

But then, she says something that makes Warren tense up.

“In extreme cases, Morse code can be used as a non-detectable form of communication, such as the tapping of fingers or even blinking of eyes.”

And then the pieces click in his head like the formation of a jigsaw puzzle; tears through his mind in such a way that it has him startled, his breath catching in his lungs and heart pounding in his ears and the air feeling like it blows more keenly in his knees. He doesn't know how to describe the sensation that runs through his veins, but he knows it’s strong, and passing in waves, and shakes him to the core, because it’s right there, it’s right there, _it’s right there._

“Holy shit.”

_Maybe if you look closer, or in between the lines, or fucking whatever, you can make something else out of this._

“Holy  _shit._ ” He has it. He’s got it. The thing he had been  _missing_.

It all makes sense; why Nathan was talking but not actually  _saying_ anything. Why he kept looking down at the hand that was making that off rhythm beat. Why he seemed scared, and nervous, and desperate.

_He was using Morse code._

And Warren’s surprised at how quickly he bolts upright, feeling as though the scramble to latch onto his bag and hop out of his seat isn’t done fast enough, muttering a quick  _sorry_ to his friends as he practically throws himself down the bleachers.

He knows that all eyes have taken notice of him and his unusual behavior—there’s no doubt in Warren’s mind that Wells is giving him a questioning, hard look from where he stands at the corner of the gym—but he doesn’t care, and he vacates the area with squeaky shoes scraping against the floor and only one thing on his mind.

_He needs to know what Nathan was trying to say._

 

* * *

 

When Warren boots up his laptop, it feels like an eternity before the screen asks for his password, his shaky hands trying desperately to get the right letters out on the first try as his mind races with nonsense that not even he himself can grasp.

His body is beating with anticipation, the blood-rush pooling in his ears as he moves to sit on the floor, words mumbled out under his breath as he tries to talk himself through what to do.

He opens up two separate tabs on his screen—one with the video and one with a guide on how to read Morse code—eyes prying away from his computer to yank his notebook off his desk and reach for a pencil, placing them both on his lap before pressing play.

Warren listens carefully, timing Nathan’s taps and rhythm. He pauses the video occasionally to write down the letters he’s managed to grasp, and he tries hard to coordinate what he hears with what he’s managed to soak in about Morse code.

Now that he has the pieces, he almost feels stupid that he hadn’t seen the obvious hints that Nathan was trying to flaunt out, the tapping feeling more exaggerated and blatant and  _right in his face_ the second time he watches it, the look of pure hopeless on Nathan’s features permanently imprinting onto his mind like the carving on a gravestone.

And when it ends, when it's over, when the video is done and frozen on that black screen, Warren has words on paper.

**_I’M ALIVE. HELP ME. NO COPS. CAN’T TRUST. FIND THROUGH FILES._ **

And he immediately think he’s got it wrong—that there’s no possible way that he can’t fall back on his plan to go to the police—so he watches it again.

And again.

And  _again._

Watches it until he can recite some of the words. Until he can remember the time mark that the tapping starts. Until he knows when to brace himself when Nathan looks so utterly broken that he can’t take it.

But it always comes out the same. The same words. The same sentence.

**_I’M ALIVE. HELP ME. NO COPS. CAN’T TRUST. FIND THROUGH FILES._ **

And Warren has to stew on all of it for a while, eyebrows drawn together with a fragile tension in the air, a frustrated noise sounding off in the back of his throat because all that did was add more complexity to the situation.

_What the hell is going on?_

His gaze finds a window, where a jack hammer has sounded off, his hands tapping the pencil against the paper as he tries to think, think,  _think._

“Find through files. Find through files.” He repeats. “C’mon Nathan, what were you trying to—”

Wait.

Of course.

The  _files._

The coordinates. Thepictures _._

Warren pushes the papers off his lap, pulling up the documents from yesterday and laying them out in an organized mess on his computer, sifting through the coordinates and flipping back through the pictures, tilting his head at some points as if a different viewpoint could help him.

He gnaws on his lower lip as he plugs the stream of coordinates into google, all the results that come up pointing him to a specific neighborhood in Lincoln City, Oregon before he decides that it isn’t enough and roams the neighborhood through the street view.

He doesn’t know how long he spends surveying the area, looking for something,  _anything,_  that could lead him in the right direction, houses upon houses blurring past him as he moves further down, clueless on which streets he's suppose to be turning at.

And just as he’s about to give up, when he thinks he has to start at square one because he just hasn’t gotten it yet, a familiar brown, suburban house comes into view on the left side of the street, standing tall with trees running around the front yard.

And when Warren compares the pictures of the house in the files, pulling them up side by side, and sees the uncanny resemblance, he knows he’s on the right track.

It's the house.

That’s where Nathan is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) This chapter was just..tragic. I feel like everything is just ooc and paced really fast (which i hate) and im gonna kms (but also im tryin to figure out how warren's personality would change after something as traumatic as the storm so this is just...messy!!! im so sorry why do u guys like this ksjgn)  
> 2) sort of a hint i guess but pay attention to the characters I briefly mention bc!!!  
> 3) this story is told from warrens perspective so you gotta believe a sista when i tell you that writing nathan is SO GODDAMN HARD WHEN I CAN'T BE IN HIS HEAD SKDJN (i didnt think this thru fuck)  
> 4) ?????????? i literally dont know what im doing but thank you for reading and commenting and kudosing (sp?) bc it means a lot and it does wonders for my literal way below average confidence. Comments are always welcome and generally like the best thing that ever happens to me so thank you thank you thank you


	3. Lionheart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating?? On a regular schedule?? sorry idk her. Real talk im sorry it took me nearly 2 months to update, im trash. This was suppose to be uploaded on Nathan's birthday (so yesterday) but im only 17ish hours late so close enough.
> 
> also I just realized there's 11k words previous to this chapter and not once has Nathan been physically present. If that doesnt show you how slow this fic is gonna be, I don't know what can.
> 
> ANYWAY. Hope u enjoy this trash bc this chapter kicked my ass!!!

****They say that true bravery doesn't exist. That the world is full of scared people who are desperate to believe that someone out there is a little less afraid. But everyone thinks that they could play the role of the hero if the time came, right? Save the world from impending doom. Fight a boss battle to stop monsters from inflicting pain on the innocent.

To just _try_ , even if you’re not sure you can do it.

So maybe that’s why Warren finds himself here, behind the steering wheel of his car, the rumble of the engine coursing through him as he pulls out of the Blackwell parking lot with a confidence that could put up a somewhat decent fight.

Back in the dorm—when there was a palpable silence hanging in the air after he’d cracked the code—Warren wished, in a single moment of pure cowardice, that the burden of the situation was on someone else's shoulders and that the Universe would give him a _break._  

Needless to say, that thought vanished quickly, because despite trying to call Victoria several times and barely being able to leave her a comprehensible voicemail, he was still the only one who had any clue about what was going on behind the layers of that single email. About how heavy the attachments in that digital screen really were.

And how could he just sit around and ignore that?

 _That’s the thing,_ he supposes. _He couldn’t._

Even if he tried.

Warren knew that if this combination of events had hit him at a different point in his life—where he’d have more time, or when the aftermath of something horrendous wasn’t constantly in the back of his mind—that he’d know what to do and how to weave his way through the situation in order to get to the best possible outcome.

But that’s the problem, isn't it?

Time.

It’s the one thing he can’t afford to spare, not when there’s too much that can go wrong. Maybe if he were granted with it, he can come up with something else; a tactic that’s not as half assed as what he’s currently getting himself into. But he really has nothing that resembles an idea, other than getting to where he needs to go and figuring things out when he’s there, because time and the whole damn universe are currently laughing at him in a cacophony of taunting sounds. So he tells himself that he there’s no other choice, no door marked with a _plan B_ to cower behind, because that’s the only way he’ll go through with this — the only way he can keep his foot on the pedal and obtain his grip on the wheel as he barrels down the road.

It's the only way he can manage to breathe after he's left the town he calls home.

 

* * *

 

Lincoln City is nothing like Arcadia Bay.

It lays closely clustered, with tall buildings in an exact grid pattern, planes glittering in the clear air as they pass by. The fumes from oncoming vehicles as they hurriedly barrel down the road underpins everything, but the diversity on the streets distracts Warren’s mind from it, coming sharply into focus like a camera zoom and then ebbing away again; only to be replaced by the next interesting thing that catches Warren’s eyes.

He drives down the busy streets for a while, listening to the monotone voice of the GPS as it tells him where to go, and continues to take in the lively scenery around him. He can spot a hat shop, a video game store—he’d totally book it straight there if he wasn’t here for a bigger purpose—a cool biker dude with a mohawk that Warren’s eyes grow into saucers at, Max, Chloe, some birds flying ahead, a street artist drawing a—

Hold up.

_Max and Chloe?_

Warren forgets that he’s in the car then, stupidly doing a double take, and loses his grip for a second before a honk reels him back in and gets him to pull himself together. He flushes immediately, waving to the driver behind him as a silent sorry before glancing back at the sidewalk, expecting to see the girl he’s had a crush on since forever and her blue haired companion.

But he sees... _nothing?_

Max isn’t there in her usual get up of a sweater and jeans, and Chloe isn't energetically talking to her with her intense hand gestures like he thought he had seen a few seconds ago, and he’s immediately thrown into a place between confusion and slight dismay.

He could’ve sworn he saw the two of them walking down the street. It had to be real, right? He couldn’t have conjured up two human beings with his imagination like that.

But if it wasn’t real, then there’s only one possible solution:

He was abducted by aliens and now his brain’s all wonky.

Yup.

Sounds reasonable enough.

Warren shakes his head and starts drumming his fingers against the steering wheel before accelerating, eyeing the sidewalks suspiciously as he drives past. He’d never thought he’d say this, but he’s really starting to regret every single night he’d stay up late playing WoW, because now it feels like those nights are starting to catch up to him, and he royally wants to kick his own ass for it. He leans back in his chair, his brain starting to entertain the idea of clones for the very purpose of _actually_ kick his own ass, and just when he gets into the legitmacy of that happening—

“Turn left on Baker Street.” The GPS makes him jump, and he quickly veers left in panic, clammy hands slipping against the wheel.

Right.

_Right._

_Focus, you idiot._

Warren lets out a long exhale, trying to remain undistracted as he follows the voice that tells him where to turn, passing by parks and beaches and houses and shops, before he arrives at a very familiar looking neighbourhood. He immediately knows it’s the one in the pictures, a whole new wave of nerves erupting when he spots the house that’s become far too familiar in his head.

He parks a few blocks down from it, turning his car off and peering through the windshield at the gigantic house that looms over tall trees. Granted, Warren’s only ever lived in mediocre apartments and tiny, quaint town houses that don’t exactly scream _wealthy_ , but it’s definitely big, especially when compared to its neighboring homes. It isn’t hard to tell that the driveway to the house is empty and the lights are all off, so Warren can only assume that the owner isn’t there— _he can’t figure out if that’s a good or bad thing yet_ —and from what he can see through the windows, the place is heavily littered with furniture.

His eyes pry away from the house to roam the streets—looking for a sign or a clue—and he can’t help but notice how suspiciously obvious it is that his worn down, second hand car doesn't belong in a neighbourhood like this.

And it’s then, in that moment of uncertainty, that Warren realizes that he’s never regretted his impulsivity as much as he has in this moment, because the reality of the fact that he’s two and a half hours away from home with no aim for anything at all is really starting to sink in, and it’s a sensation that’s both intimidating and uncomfortable.

But he brushes that thought aside and shakes it out until it’s nothing but an empty space, because he currently needs to think of a plan to get into the house, and he can only hope that it's one that doesn't put him behind bars.

 

* * *

 

 

The good news? Warren was right about nobody being home. The bad?

His only way to get in is to break in.

And considering the fact that the one thing he had done in the past that screamed a _tiny_ bit of anarchy was forgetting to pay a parking ticket, filing this situation under a _‘step up’_ is an understatement.

“You just had to outdo yourself this time, didn’t you?” Warren mutters, grunting as he hops over the backyard fence at a pace so quick that it’s almost like he’s some reincarnation of quicksilver — but it’s only because he doesn’t want neighbours to notice.

If he’s going to do this, the last thing he wants is to get caught.

And he won’t.

Most likely.

Probably.

_Maybe?_

Warren dismisses his doubt, shoving it to the back of his head as he approaches a ground level window. He looks up, tries to inconspicuously glance around, and gets to work when he decides that he’s got the green light to pry the panel open. He manages to do so with enough effort, and he winces when a loud squeak sounds off from the soles of the windows sliding against the panel.

“Man, this is so _illegal_.”

And Warren isn’t wrong, but he still finds himself cautiously crawling past the cramped opening anyway and hauling ass to the other side of the ledge, only getting one foot on the other side before clumsily falling over and onto his back with a loud _‘oof’,_ pain shooting up his spine seconds after the collision.

Well, that was definitely _not_ as cool as the movies make it out to be.

_Damn you, James Bond._

Warren muffles the coughs that echo out of his mouth with his forearm, a grimace on his face as he hoists himself up with the help of the nearby counter. The floorboards creak under his weight when he stands, and it’s at this moment when the smell of the house finally hits. It’s a scent that’s he knows he’s inhaled before, but he can’t put a finger to what it is.

He leans into the countertop for support, and he can immediately make out the various structural designs of the inside as he gazes around the area. The contrast of the inside of the house versus the outside is so staggering that Warren almost believes he stepped through a portal to a different universe. The outside is intricate and resembles the more old fashioned victorian-esque houses, but the inside is sleek, modern, with pristine, minimalistically arranged furniture. Warren has to blink at the monochromatic colour scheme, and the only thing that reminds him that he isn't going color blind is the few instances of red. Camera equipment lays dormant in the corner of the living room, and art pieces hang in alignment along the walls. One in particular catches Warren’s eyes, and once he’s locked on, he has a hard time looking away because of the amount of gore in it.

He can appreciate gruesome art, no doubt about that. But that’s too much.

Warren bites on his lower lip when he finally pries his eyes away, and after his cognitive thought decides to follow him through the window, he realizes he’s in the kitchen, a dining table to his left and a countertop island right in front of him; mail scattered across the surface in an organized fashion. Exhaling sharply, he shoves the part of himself that’s telling him that _this is wrong and against the law and he really just broke into someone’s house_ to the back of his mind—now is _not_ the time to be playing moral compass—before reaching over to grab one of the envelopes in front of him, eyes roaming across the mail as he fumbles around with it, gaze fixated on the letters that give Warren the name of the owner of this house.

And right there, in big, bold font, is a name that’s unmistakably recognizable. So much so that it makes him both confused and terrified:

**_Mark Jefferson._ **

And Warren just stares _._ Stares because he doesn’t know what to make of that. Stares as though the letters will rearrange themselves into a different order if he looked just a little longer — as if what was infront of him came straight out of the DaVinci Code.

But whatever he’s hoping to come never does, and he drops the thick lined envelope back down with shaky hands, a whole new level of uncomfortable running through him as he navigates through the spacious hallways with steps so cautious that it’s like he’s afraid he’ll step on glass.

_This has got to be some kind of joke. Why would Mr. Jefferson have Nathan? That...That makes absolutely no sense._

_Oh. Oh no._ What if he’s in the wrong house? He could’ve broke in for no reason. He could get arrested and sued and put in juvie and oh _God,_ turning rebellious was absolutely not what he meant by ‘Going ape’—

“Okay, dude. Chill. You got this.” Warren rolls his shoulders, focusing his attention back to the hallway. “Just calm down and solve one problem at a time.”

And his little pep talk works— _kind of_ —because despite everything else, it manages to get him to continue down the hall that now seems far too long and narrow and suffocating; rays of sun shining in through the windows of the living room and bouncing off various objects.

Warren tiptoes his way towards the staircase, not exactly sure what he’s looking for as he passes by furniture that looks more expensive than his car and house combined— _of course Mark Jefferson would live this lavishly_ —before something glints in the corner of his eye. He pauses, shielding his face against the glare of the object by putting his hands forward, before realizing it’s...

 _a padlock_?

And his first instinct is to race over and grab onto it to try to budge it from it’s place—something important has to be behind here—but he soon realizes that the idea is idiotic because it’d be human strength versus the unforgiving force of steel, so he lets out a heavy sigh and rubs the back of his neck, rolling his shoulders and shaking out some of his limbs to get himself to think, think, _think_.

He could always freeze the lock off. Taking into account what he knows about compressed air, he'd mathematically need about two cans due to the size of it. All he'd have to do is tip the can upside down before holding the trigger to release Trifluoroethane in order to cool the lock to at least -67 degrees Fahrenheit. It's simple stuff, and it seems like a good idea, too. It's one that Warren wants to pat himself on the shoulder for, and for a second there he has himself convinced it's a solid plan — but his solution is extremely short lived, because something else occurs to him:

Where the _hell_ is he gonna get Trifluoroethane?

It isn't like people just have compressed air laying around in their house, sitting on the counter with a giant red bow eagerly awaiting for an intruder to use, right? And even if someone does have it, what are the odds that they’ll have two of them?

Warren grumbles at the quickly unravelling not-so-smart idea, and he decides that he wants to spontaneously combust right then and there.

_Okay, new plan. Maybe something a little less complicated this time._

He glances at the lock once more, and the second his brain provides him with _acid_ as an answer, he shakes his head and starts teetering on the balls of his feet. Acid. _Acid?_ That isn’t simpler. In fact, it’s even worse than the stupid compressed air idea!

Warren sighs for what feels like the one hundredth time today, and he hangs his head back to look at the ceiling as a low groan escapes his mouth. Why— _goddamnit_ —is today, of all days, the day where his intellect actually decides to backfire? Compressed air and acid seem like good ideas on the surface, but they’re also completely and undoubtedly stupid given the situation he’s in. It’s the problem of insufficient supplies, too much time being taken up, and—

_Wait._

Warren’s body straightens, and he levels his head back from the ceiling to look in the direction of the garage.

It’s a _padlock,_ right? So he can just break it. No freezing, no melting, just blunt force.

He scoffs, more so because the solution to this problem had been way easier than his mind was leading it on to be. Of _course_ he’d go right for the problem that involved dangerous chemicals and held real possibilities of him burning his hand off instead of the glaringly obvious one.

And now he just really, really he hopes that Mr. Jefferson has at least one of the tools that he needs.

 

* * *

 

It doesn't really occur to Warren how bad the idea of using a crowbar to pry open the lock is until he’s standing in front of the chained door with the very object wielded in his grip, the end of the pole hovering over the chains as his mind finally supplies him with the doubt that he knew would come. It wasn't that the idea was unsafe, or stupid, or completely out of the box. It was just that there was just too many ways for it to become real noisy and messy, real fast.

But desperate times call for desperate measures, right?

Yeah.

Sounds like a good enough justification.

Warren lines the end of the crowbar with the back of the lock, looping it around so it's placed in the center, before applying pressure on the opposite end of the handle and angling it downward, wincing when the loud _crack_ of the lock breaking cuts through the silence in the hallway. The chain and padlock fall to the floor quick—too quick for him to catch—and it smacks against the tiles in a heap of sounds, Warren hissing immediately at the noise.

He freezes then, waiting for something—anything—to jump out at the noise he’s made, or for someone to slam the door in front of him open, but everything stays the same in that dull emptiness, and he lets out the breath that he didn't even know he was holding in, cautiously pulling the door open to reveal a staircase that leads down to a dimly lit room.

_Well, here goes everything._

He forces a step forward— _maybe he should turn back. What if he’s overstepping? What if something happens? Or worse, what if there’s nothing?_ —and allows his eyes to peer around his surroundings as he makes his descent into God knows what, hopping off the last step with anything but ease as he hangs onto the railing.

The room strikes Warren as one word when the entirety of it is visible: familiar. The pale blue walls and furniture are oddly recognitional, and upon further inspection, the reason as to why begins to settling in the pits of his stomach.

It doesn't click immediately, but when he see’s that all too recognizable chair propped against the wall and hears the steady yet unsettling noise of Nathan’s breathing—spotting just a bit of his dirty blonde hair from behind the couch—it hits him.

This is the room Nathan recorded the video in.

And because he doesn’t know what else to do; can't think of anything in the moment of that jarring thought piercing through his head, he does the first thing his mind could think of and runs over to Nathan, the fresh bruises on the older boys lips and jaw serving as a reminder as to how real everything is.

Nathan’s eyes are closed, and he’s laying on the ground in a fetal position, head placed at a weird angle as his chest heaves up and down. Warren finds himself relieved that Nathan’s at least breathing, and crouches down beside him, hands hovering over his body because he doesn't know what to do with them.

“Nathan,” he calls, deciding that shaking his shoulders would be the best course of action. “Nathan? Dude, wake up!”

But he doesn’t move. Not even a flinch. No vague hand gesture. Nothing.

He must’ve inhaled or taken something, or—

 _No._ That doesn’t explain the bruises.

Mr. Jefferson had to have done something to him.

_Shit._

“Okay, uh,” Warren stands, lifting one of Nathan’s hands off the floor and using that to drag him off the cramped space they’re in. He tries—and succeeds, somehow—to keep Nathan’s head from banging against the floor, and Warren drops Nathan’s hand and crouches down again when he’s pulled him far enough. He uses all of his strength to lift Nathan high enough for his arms to go around Warren’s shoulders, muttering a _‘christ dude, you’re really heavy.’_ as his arms slip under Nathan’s body to lift him up bridal style.

Warren wants to say that the first feeling that hits him right there is a sense of heroism for actually doing what he’s doing, but it goes straight to embarrassment and stays there in all its glory because _holy shit_ Nathan would have his ass if he were conscious right now.

_Okay, man. Not the time to think of the very real possibility of ass kickery by Nathan Prescott. Stay focused._

Warren looks up at the stairs ahead, the path to get up there now looking like an impossible task. He takes in the fact that he’s seriously out of shape and is about to lug the weight of two people up a flight of stairs, but he only manages to gulp before he realizes he’s already moving.

He grunts, and pants, and when he’s finally up the stairs it feels as though an hour has gone by. His arms are already burning from the weight, but he ignores it and pushes the door open with the back of his foot, repressing a yelp when he tries to exit and ends up slamming Nathan’s head against the doorframe.

_Whoops._

At least he won’t remember it.

Warren hoists Nathan up a little higher to avoid smacking his head again, settling his head on Warren’s shoulder, and lowering him to the ground in the hallway when he’s finally through. He hunches forward and stands there nearly hyperventilating for a few seconds as his eyes waver between Nathan and the lock on the floor. He decides to snatch it up, running his hand over it before stuffing it in his back pocket and grabbing the crowbar, placing it back in it’s rightful place. He’s watched too many crimes shows to know that he wants to leave as little evidence as possible, and he makes sure everything looked exactly the way it had when he’d entered.

Well, not exactly, considering the lock can't go back on the latch and he’s sure he did...something to the back window, but close enough.

Warren returns to Nathan, and with a curse to the Gods above, he hoists him up once again and stumbles his way back towards the way he came, damn near dropping Nathan twice; once while getting him through the window, and the other while hauling him over the waist-high fence.

Eventually, he manages to get the two of them to his car after about as much struggle as he’d expect, and once they’re both inside, Warren casts once last glance at the house before letting his eyes land on Nathan through the rear view mirror. He’s sprawled out on the back seats, his arm draping over the edge, bruises looking even worse when hit with direct sunlight.

With a sharp inhale, Warren tears his gaze away, and a lump that signifies his increasing doubt forms in his throat.

_What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Graham?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, credits to my beta's [gunophilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunophilia/pseuds/gunophilia) and [nyvera](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyvera/pseuds/nyvera) on ao3 and [grahamscotthell](https://grahamscotthell.tumblr.com) on tumblr for helping me get this chapter done. I have no idea what I'd do w/o your guys' input and i extend my endless gratitude to you!!
> 
> So, I know Lincoln city exists in real life but for story purposes nothing I say other than the city name will be irl accurate (meaning the street names and the look of the area will literally be from my imagination bc im canadian and i know jackshit about america)
> 
> ANYWAY, let's hope I update sooner next time around! In the meantime, you can totally check out the [super shitty poster I made for this story that I posted on my tumblr while dicking around in photoshop (follow me and scream at me about anything and I will love u)](https://miller-williams.tumblr.com/post/162893188660/did-i-seriously-put-off-actually-writing-the-fic) (shameless self promotion? Yes.)


	4. Don't Wake the Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ....so, i didn't die [what a tragedy] but i SWEAR i have (sort of) reasonable explanations for not updating since AUGUST 2017 DFHDSB:  
>  1\. school. it kicked my ass and took over my life  
> 2\. i got sidetracked by other fandoms and this is my fault entirely but also i needed a well-deserved break from the LIS fandom  
> 3\. this chapter has a lot riding on it and it's literally go big or go home so i've been fighting with this bitch for like 6 months and she STILL AINT COOPERATING??? I DID THE BEST I COULD BUT [BIG SILENCE] i really am trash! look at me go!
> 
> hHHHH that's my poor excuse of a very much needed apology askjfn but im out for the summer now so HOPEFULLY *side-eyes myself* i can pump out more updates (or, yknow, drop off the face of the earth again. we'll see)

Getting Nathan into the dorms without being seen was more trouble than Warren had anticipated, but somehow, he managed, and by the time Warren was able to collect his thoughts, he’d already paced around his room for a much longer time than he’d like to admit.

In the loosest of terms, a veritable shitton has happened since Warren saw the video, and now that he’s nervously walking around his room and pausing to occasionally look at an unconscious Nathan Prescott, he feels the weight of what he’s done like lead in his stomach.

Warren tries to stop pacing, and for the most part it works, but he’s still unable to keep still, rocking his weight with the balls of his feet and swinging his arms. He isn’t really sure what to do now—so much of his plan was improvised, one impulsive decision after the next—but at the moment he’s solidly and undeniably stuck. There isn’t much he can do except wait for Nathan to wake up, and even then he has no idea what he’s going to say, or how he’ll manage to get the answers to the millions of questions that have buzzed in his brain since he saw the video.

It’s like when Warren solves one problem, a thousand others emerge, and if this is the pattern that’s going to continue, he doesn’t want to know how many trials of solutions he’ll have to run before they inevitably one up him and come crashing down.

But he supposes he’ll manage, because he has exactly zero other options left at this point.

A loud rapping noise at his door makes Warren jump, and he spins on his heel so quick he almost falls backwards. Blinking at the wooden frame with wide eyes, he clamps his mouth shut, because if he stays silent, whoever that is will leave, right?

“Warren? It’s Stella. We need to talk.”

Wrong.

 _Shit_.

Warren’s gaze nervously flickers between Nathan and the door. There’s absolutely no way he’s letting Stella inside, and even higher on _the list of shit that Warren isn’t doing by any means_ , he isn’t telling her about Nathan. Not yet, at least. Not until he has the answers he needs.

“Warren?” The second round of knocks sounds off with a more erratic beat. “I know you’re in there, Warren. I swear I just wanna talk.” She sighs, heavily, like something’s bothering her, “You just...you can’t keep shutting people out. You need to talk about these things. What happened this morning?”

Warren lets out a long breath, clammy hands brushing against his jeans as he hangs his head and continues his silence. After what he’d just done, he doesn't think he can handle a conversation with Stella. She always seems to know when something’s wrong—Warren’s as easy to read as an open book to her—and he doesn’t trust his ability to lie.

But Warren knows that just flat out ignoring her would lead to more suspicion, so he has to do something. If he doesn’t, Stella, maybe even Kate, will poke and prod at him until he lets up, and that sounds even worse than just having a single talk right now and getting it over with.

Especially considering the fact that he’s harbouring a guy who’s supposedly missing.

“Okay, just, uh, gimme a sec,” he says, a nervous tremor in his voice that he sincerely hopes Stella can’t hear.

After making sure his dorm key is still on him, he pivots in place to look at Nathan,  racking his brain about what to do with him, or if he should do anything at all. He’s just laying on Warren’s bed, chest heaving and looking so out of it that Warren can only come to the conclusion that he isn’t waking anytime soon.

Warren considers leaving a note, but the idea is quickly ushered out of his mind because he tries to imagine what it would feel like if he were in Nathan’s position and woke up to some stupid scribbles on a piece of paper. That won't play over well, so he has to make it back before Nathan comes to.

Yeah, he can manage that. Totally.

With a last, hesitant glance at Nathan, Warren opens a crack in the door and squeezes himself through it for extra measure. His bed is against the wall near the door, so he doubts Stella would even see Nathan if she caught a glimpse inside, but he can’t afford to take that chance.

Stella gives him a weird look and takes a step back, like she suspects something is up, and his immediate response is to muster up a smile that’s as convincing as he can make it.

“So,” his voice gives way to a small squeak, hands fumbling with the door handle and keys as he locks it before hurriedly clearing his throat, “you wanted to talk?”

“Yeah. But not here.” Stella replies, and he finds himself surprised that she doesn’t ask him what that whole thing was about.

“Okay,” Warren raises a brow. “Where are we going?”

“Lunch,” She grabs his wrist.  “I’m starving.”

 

* * *

 

Lunch took longer, a _lot_ longer, than Warren expected. They had been on their way to the school cafeteria when they ran into Kate, who suggested they could go grab a bite somewhere else. Stella thought that was a _wonderful_ idea, going off about how the cafeteria food wasn’t that great anyway, and Warren couldn’t think of how to decline in such a way that it didn’t raise suspicion. They all piled into his car, Kate giving directions from the back seat and Stella whistling a tune from time to time. Warren caught himself feeling lucky that they didn’t have to pass by the area around the beach where the Two Whales was being reconstructed. For some reason, he felt sick every time he saw it—even on things like the TV or posters that were hung around the school for its grand reopening. He just always felt an instant pang of _no, stop that, you can’t go that way,_ and no matter how hard he tried, he could never fight it.

But it was probably nothing.

When they had, much to Warren’s surprise, arrived at some retro-eighties burger joint, the three made a beeline for a booth towards the left, instantly looking through the menu to see what the place had to offer. The impatient bounce in Warren’s leg, and the way he tapped his fingers against the table as they waited for their orders, raised an opportunity for Kate to ask questions, but he brushed her concerns off with an unconvincing _“I’m fine”_ that got Stella to purse her lips skeptically. By the time everyone finished eating, Warren had nearly bolted to his car and broke at least three traffic laws  in order to get to his room as soon as possible.

Now, after shaking Stella and Kate off, he’s making his way to his dorm with a nervous jitter in his step.

Holding back thoughts of Nathan just long enough to be casual in front of his friends means that it comes rushing front and center the second they're gone, and everything he’s shoved back projects itself in Warren’s mind.

All the possible scenarios that can occur once he steps through the threshold to his dorm room run through his head like wildfire. Nathan’s unpredictable, sporadic, acts on impulse rather than logic, and of course Warren has all of these details written down on the list of who Nathan Prescott _is_ , because he’s the same guy who threatened Max. The same guy whose entitlement and anger got the best of him.

But he’s also the same guy who use to walk the Blackwell halls in an unsteady beat. Who had a blank look and empty eyes to match when you stared into them for too long. Who had a bark fiercer than most but no bite to ensure the destruction. The same guy who never looked like he was okay.

Nathan Prescott never truly looked _okay_.

But, really, who is Warren to think about the requirements of being fine?

Because is he so sure that he lives up to them himself?

Warren shifts his jaw as his pace picks up, figuring that this is stupid and nodding along with that thought like he’s trying to convince himself that it's true. Warren’s already done something he can’t take back, and it doesn’t matter who Nathan Prescott was then, because now he’s going to be facing a Nathan who’s been through six weeks of god knows what.

And he wonders, briefly, like the jolt in his veins that gets him to pause, about what kind of person comes out of that.

Who do you become?

Warren pulls the doors to the dorms open, cutting around the corner towards his room and eyeing some of the boys who are loitering at the end of the hall. They’re huddled in a group, with one of them in the middle, a phone in his hand as they all intently watch the screen. Most of them are new faces, and he can hear distinct chatter from the device, but when one of them barks out a laugh that sharply cuts through the air, it hits a nerve in Warren and he flinches, a deep breath escaping his mouth to force himself to chill out.

He doesn’t know if the boys notice his demeanor change from the polar opposite of what it was before, but he doesn’t really want a fact check, so he purposely keeps his head lowered as he walks the rest of the way to his room, vaguely hearing someone else ride past him on a skateboard from behind him.

He has his keys out before he even notices, and after he’s unlocked it, he stands in front of the door for a few seconds and just stares because he has no idea what to prepare for. There’s always the possibility that Nathan hasn’t woken up, because if he had, there would have to be some kind of commotion about, right? The most popular kid in school suddenly stumbles out of Warren’s dorm, disoriented and wondering where he was—that would certainly make a buzz around campus.

That’s best case scenario.

And Warren? Shit, he doesn’t want to think about what could possibly be the worst, so before rational thought leaves him and fills his mind up of ideas that’ll only make him nervous, he reaches down to grab the handle, tugging it open with one brave push forward.

For two seconds, the stillness of silence and undisrupted furniture in his room make it seem like everything’s okay.

And then, as if a switch in his brain flickers on and tells him that there’s more he should be looking for, something hits Warren like the brick against body sensation you get when jumping off a cliff and into ice cold water.

Warren’s bed is empty.

Nathan isn’t in the place he was left in, and before Warren can even process that fact long enough for him to feel some sort of panic about it, he  hears the door slam shut behind him, bony hands grabbing at his shoulders and rushing him backward. Warren yelps in surprise, body colliding into the closed door and head smashing against the frame, a groan emitting from his parted lips as he feels something cold and sharp press up against the front of his throat.

“What the _fuck_ is going on?”

Nathan is close. Too close. It hits Warren right then and there that his logic had not accounted for Nathan waking up and _staying in the room_.

Head spinning from the impact he’d just endured, Warren only manages a confused “wha—?” before his line of sight comes back into focus. It’s then that he realizes what it is exactly that’s being pressed up against his neck, and his throat runs dry.

Oh.

Oh hell no.

“D-Dude, you need to put that thing down—”

“Or what?” Nathan bites back through clenched teeth, his grip on Warren's collar tightening in his fists. Warren squirms as he grasps onto Nathan’s wrist—a silent plea to back off—and he had been so busy looking down at the pair of scissors that was threatening his life that when he does finally look up, he realizes that Nathan’s glaring at him with more disdain than he’d ever seen on another human being before.

Well, so much for talking things out.

“Look, will you just calm down?” Warren reverts his head back in an attempt to get further away from the scissors, his composure switching between collected and borderline terrified as he tells himself that _this won’t end badly, this won’t end badly, this won’t end badly._

“Why am I here?” Nathan ignores Warren completely and holds his eyes for a beat longer than he has to, edging Warren so close to the door that the knob painfully jabs into his lower back. He bites his tongue to keep an angry thread of words locked behind his teeth, and instead trains his eyes on Nathan’s face, wondering how the hell someone in his state—bruises blooming across his body and the effects of whatever substance knocked him out progressively leaving his system—is managing to hold him up without a single inch of debility.

“What do you want from me?” Nathan prods when Warren stays silent, nose scrunching up as his lips curl into a snarl. His irises grow dark, coloured with the sort of icy and distant gaze that he’s notorious for, and that gets Warren to open his mouth and find his own voice.

“What are you talking about?” And he hates that his words sound so inferior, but no amount of effort seems to skew his voice away from the high pitched and nervous extremity that it’s dialed up to now. “I think you’re getting the wrong idea here, dude—”

“The wrong idea?” Nathan’s brows furrow, and his jaw clenches momentarily before he continues on, “You got no fucking clue what all this shit _looks like_ to me right now, Graham.”

But god, Warren does. And that’s precisely the reason he’s shitting himself.

Nathan’s bruised and battered and looks like a goddamn mess. He’s got scars on his knuckles, his eyes are blown out with fear and anger and uncertainty, and his pale skin looks even paler against his wounds. Of course Warren _has_ to know what this look like, it's obvious and frighteningly so. Nathan thinks Warren’s got something to do with everything that’s happened to him, because why in the world would some kid who he’s never talked to have him in his room?

“Listen, I know you’re panicking,” Warren pauses when Nathan’s grip tightens on the scissors, and he forces himself to ignore it and look away from the faltering expression on Nathan’s face. “And you have every right to feel that way, but hear me out.”

Nathan doesn’t say anything; doesn’t make a move to confirm any of the innumerable scenarios running through Warren's head in response to his obvious half assed defense. No — instead, Nathan continues to hold Warren’s gaze with the sort of deliberate consideration and intensity that Warren desperately wants to look away from, but can’t.  

And he can’t possibly know what Nathan’s thinking about, but from experience, silence isn't exactly an indicator of something good.

So he subconsciously prepares himself for the worst, body recoiling from Nathan’s touch and fists clenching tight just in case he needs to do _something,_ and just as he’s about to speak again—say anything to break the uncomfortable tension in the air that isn’t helping his nerves one bit—

“Okay. Fucking explain.”

It takes a few seconds for Nathan’s words to sink in, but when they do, Warren wastes no time in spilling what happened. He starts with how he’d gotten the video in the first place, mentioning that Victoria hadn’t seen it yet, before going through his whole thought process about why he up and left to Mr. Jefferson’s house. Halfway through, Warren realizes that saying all of this out loud makes it seem stupid, but he pushes that aside and keeps going, even going as far as to include why he left Nathan in the room by himself.

“And...and that’s how you ended up here. I swear that’s the truth.” Warren inhales sharply, watching Nathan’s features shift from bared teeth and narrowed eyes to a more neutral one, blue eyes growing softer but still obtaining its intensity.

The grip on Warren’s collar loosens just a bit, but fear is still a prominent factor in Warren’s stance, because assuming that he’s in the clear is a no go when he’s dealing with Nathan fucking _Prescott_ , especially when Nathan’s face is laced in such an unreadable expression that Warren thinks he’s said something wrong, even though he knows he hasn’t.

“Are you gonna hurt me?” Warren’s voice rushes out before he can stop himself, and there’s something that crosses Nathan’s face then—disbelief—but Warren’s too shaken up to really notice it.

“Shut up.” Nathan snaps.

“I just—”

“I said shut the fuck up! Shut up!” His voice rips through the air, rising a few octaves and startling Warren into silence. Nathan’s fist shake against Warren’s chest, and as Warren regards him with the undisguised fear that he knows is pulling at his features, he can practically see the anger and confusion that Nathan’s barely keeping restrained beneath the surface.

And great, honestly, just _great_ , because if Nathan hadn’t found an excuse to hurt Warren before, he sure as shit just presented one. Something’s gonna happen. Right here. Right now. In the dorm room of a school that's put one too many problems on his head. People do things when they’re scared, and there’s no way in hell Nathan’s going to believe anything that had come out of Warren’s mouth.

But then Warren’s chest feels lighter, compression on his neck disappears, and Nathan’s moving backwards, and he realizes that Nathan actually believes him.

“What the fuck?” Warren whispers, more to himself than anyone else as his body involuntarily relaxes and slumps against the wall. He shuts his eyes, breathes in because he’s thankful for not feeling the familiar fear, that piled up in his chest moments ago, overthrowing him and yanking him back into a place where darkness is the only thing he can grab onto.

He can hear Nathan’s feet as he shuffles across the room—they’re lazy and expectant and something Warren had grown accustomed to from seeing him in the halls before everything had happened—and when he looks up beneath his bangs with an unexplained uncertainty, Nathan’s shoulders are rigid. Tense. He’s ready to put up a fight if needed, and Warren doesn’t wanna test out the lengths Nathan will go to if he tries to wrestle the scissors away from him.

“So you...you aren't going to,” Warren gestures grandly with his hands, “do anything?”

“Well, do you _want_ me to?” Nathan pulls back Warren’s curtains, but doesn’t look at him.

“No.”

“Fucking good. We’re on the same page then.” He eyes the area outside—his stance relaxes for a few seconds, like he’s happy to be here—before he abruptly puts the curtains back to its previous state and peers around the room.

“The same page?” Warren shakes his head, “The _same page_? We’re not even in the same library! I still have exactly zero clue what's going on.”

Nathan raises his eyebrows, like he really hadn't expected that sort of bluntness from him, before leaning against Warren’s night stand. “You said Vic doesn’t know what’s going on yet, that you left her a voicemail. What’d you say?”

Warren notes the change of topic, but bites his tongue from calling him out on it. “I just told her I needed to speak to her about something important. I figured that finding out your best friend is alive and being kept somewhere is something that happens in a face to face conversation.”

“So she knows absolutely nothing?”

“Pretty much.”

“Okay,” Nathan nods, like he’s locking in the confirmation for himself, “We’re gonna keep it that way.”

Warren doesn’t miss a beat. “Say what now?”

Nathan’s hand twitches slightly, and Warren makes sure when the motion catches his attention that he looks away quick enough for Nathan not to notice. They lock eyes instead, and Warren can practically see the imaginary seal that runs across Nathan’s lips to let him know that he isn’t planning on saying anything else.

“Look, you can’t just—” Warren starts slowly, but his voice comes out more aggressive that he intends, and he notably tries to soften it, “—you can’t stay quiet about what’s going on and expect progress. I know you’ve been through a lot, okay? I get it. I can’t imagine what being,” Warren flounders trying to look for the right word, “ _locked up_ felt like, and I seriously can’t imagine what you had to endure, but being shoved in the dark after what I did—after what happened to you—isn’t _fair_. I went against my better judgement here, and I need to know why I did it. I need...” He pauses for a second, because he knows how shitty this is going to sound, “I need to know that what I did was the right thing.”

Warren isn’t surprised at the look Nathan gives him—a look that's mixed with equal parts anger and something else he can't entirely pinpoint—but he is surprised at how abruptly Nathan pushes his weight off the nightstand, upsetting his lamp in the process and causing it to topple over. They both ignore it.

Nathan looks like he wants to say something. His lip is twitching, and when he opens his mouth, Warren prepares himself for the storm he thinks is going to come.

But it doesn’t.

Warren expected yelling, an angry tangent, some sort of threat, because at-least it would remind him who he’s talking to. At least it wouldn’t make him feel bad for saying what he said.

But when Nathan snaps his mouth shut just as quickly as he opened it, staring at Warren for a beat longer than he needs to, that reasoning crumbles. This is the last thing Warren predicted, and a silence stretches between them. It’s harrowing and uncomfortable, but Warren isn't focusing on it. Instead, he puts his focus on trying to get away from Nathan’s eerily accusatory eyes, feeling as though having the balls to even say something like that—something that has such a terrible meaning behind it—was stupid and uncalled for.

And maybe it was.

But it’s out there now. Nathan knows what Warren thinks about the whole situation, and Warren— _goddamnit_ —he feels extremely guilty.

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that—”

“You want to know if you did the right thing?” Nathan cuts through. “Well, let me tell you something. Jefferson was going to _kill_ me. That should give you an indicator of the fucking shitstorm you saved me from.”

“Wha— _kill you?_ ” The information is hard to swallow, even though logically he knows it shouldn’t be.

“Yeah,” Nathan says it in an almost monotone way—desensitized, like it’s something normal. “Does that paint a good enough picture for you?”

“I…” Everything hits Warren so hard, and he has to really digest it before being able to form a coherent thought. “ _Jesus_ —Nathan, you need to go to the police, or—”

“I can’t,” Nathan cuts him off.

“What?” Warren stands up straighter, “Why not?”

“Because…” Nathan sighs, starting to pace about the room. “Because…. _shit_ _—_ ”

Nathan collapses on to Warren’s bed, his nails scratching along the surface of his wrists. “You wanted the truth, right?”

Warren hides the surprise that splurges through his body at the sudden change of heart. Nathan seemed hell bent on keeping quiet before, but now he's offering to let it out. Warren isn't sure what to make of that, but does know he wants the truth more than anything, so he nods slowly, taking a small step forward in anticipation.

“Okay,” Nathan says, voice small and wavering as if he’s seriously unsure. “You might want to sit down for this.”

And so Warren does, wheeling out his desk chair and placing it across from Nathan, making sure to keep a safe distance. Nathan doesn't seem to like it when people are too close to him.

“So,” Nathan starts, keeping a close watch on Warren’s face, gauging his reactions, “you probably noticed that you rescued me from Mark Jefferson’s house.”

“Yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask about—”

“He’s a psychopath.”

The words catch Warren off guard, although when he thinks about it he realizes they shouldn’t have. A psychopath is exactly the kind of person that would lock someone in a basement before attempting to kill them. It made sense, Warren had seen enough movies and read enough books to reach that conclusion. But Mark Jefferson— _the_ Mark Jefferson—being a psychopath was the part that threw him on a loop.

“O-okay,” Warren says, nodding even though his brain was still wrapping itself around the idea, “what does...what does that have to do with you? How did you end up in his basement?”

Nathan’s intense gaze wavers at that, replaced by something more subdued and almost somber. “I… fucked up. I seriously, completely fucked up. It’s a long story and I’ve never told anyone about it, so before I tell you, you need to _swear_ that you won’t tell anybody else, got it? This is bigger than me. No one can know.”

Warren’s silent for a few seconds, eyeing Nathan and shifting his jaw in thought. The way Nathan put so much emphasis on not telling anyone unnerved Warren, but this is ultimately what he wanted. The truth. To let everything out in the open so he knows what the hell is going on.

And maybe he’ll regret agreeing, and maybe he won't, but it doesn’t matter anymore, because he’s already nodding. “Okay. I swear.”

Nathan takes a deep breath, like he’s bracing himself for what he’s about to say and how it’ll change Warren’s perception of the world as he knows it.

“Mark Jefferson, he—fuck, how do I put this? He’s obsessed with the concept of innocence and purity. I can’t explain it very well, but he did some...fucked up stuff to appease it,” Nathan pauses, fingers twitching in his lap. “I’m not gonna get into the fine details of how it happened, but basically he ended up persuading me to...do those things.”

Warren’s quick to ask, “What _things_ , Nathan?” And even he can’t ignore the complete drop in the atmosphere at his words.

“Just…” Nathan looks away, and Warren wants to tell him it’s okay—he’s always been a sensitive, reassuring person at heart—but this time he knows it’s not. Nathan’s hesitancy is already a big enough indicator of just how bad whatever happened really is, and Warren is so tired of the secrets Arcadia Bay seems to hold within its borders that he can’t bring himself to argue with his inner thoughts.

“They just weren’t good things, alright? And I know that now, I know…” Nathan heavily exhales, “I know everything I need to know, but I fucked up, I did. I can admit it, but that doesn't mean I don’t hate myself for it.”

Nathan’s digging his nails into his skin and Warren doesn’t even think he knows that he’s drawing blood, so he silently reaches behind him to grab a tissue and hand it over. Nathan takes it without question, but doesn't make a move to wipe the cuts. He just crumples the tissue and continues. “The shit I did—we did—it was illegal. And messed up. So, so fucking messed up. That’s why Mark thought it’d be a good time to escape during the storm. Evidence would be destroyed—it’d be easy.”

Warren can tell that Nathan isn’t okay with relaying everything to him, and it isn’t surprising, but Warren still nods to let him know he’s still listening and to encourage him to continue, even if the things Nathan’s saying is causing  an uncomfortable anxiety to pool in his stomach.

“I had no idea about his plans. At that point, I was becoming very lucid about the shit we were doing. I got scared. I came to my senses and realized just how fucked everything was and didn’t want to do it anymore. Especially when those two—” Nathan stopped mid-sentence, quickly darting his eyes to Warren for the first time since he spoke, a wary glint in his irises that makes Warren confused.

“Some... _people_ were getting into my business. They were putting pieces together and figuring what was going on. It was only a matter of time before everything got busted and went tits up. Mark knew this, I guess, and he was getting restless and more aggressive, and I was beginning to get anxious. I tried to stay off his back as much as possible, but then he tricked me into meeting up with him. He cornered me, put a cloth over my mouth and I blacked out. Next thing I know, I…he..." Nathan hesitates, and Warren see’s something so familiar in the way his eyes gloss over and his lips part as he struggles to get a word out, but can’t put a name to it. “I wake up tied and in the trunk of his car.”

Warren’s heart drops. Suddenly, it doesn't matter to him that this is _the_ Nathan Prescott in front of him. Doesn’t matter that he’s the same guy who’d snap at everyone around him, or that he’s the walking definition of an asshole. All that really matters, in this moment, is what happened to him and how much Warren thinks he doesn’t deserve it.

“I remember a lot of white noise. Feeling...disoriented. I was panicking. I was stuck in the back of his trunk for hours, and then suddenly the car stopped and Mark was dragging me out. I thought for sure that he was going to kill me and ditch my body somewhere, but then, to my surprise, he shoved a phone to my ear. I didn’t know what I was expecting, really, but...but there was a moment of relief at hearing his father's voice on the other line... Until I realized exactly why Jefferson had called him. It was a ransom.”

Warren holds back the startled noise that builds up in the back of his throat. Does that mean Sean Prescott had known his own son was alive and captive this whole time?

What the _fuck_?

“They made a deal. My dad pumps out money for Mark and in turn Mark doesn’t say shit about what was going on.” Nathan bitterly laughs, “But he’s smart, y’know? Always has been. He feared my father would one up him or something, so he kept me as a hostage just in case something happened.” Nathan’s grip on the crumpled tissues tightens, “But the one thing I was confused about was what my dad was so afraid of. Most importantly, how the hell he knew about anything I did for Mark when I was so sure I kept it hidden. It didn’t take me long to figure out that he was somehow involved with the Dark Room as well, and that whatever Mark had on my father was big.”

“The...the Dark Room?”

Nathan deflates, not daring to look Warren in the eyes, and it just makes everything that much worse. Warren doesn’t break the silence because of it. He can’t—or rather, he doesn’t want to. Whatever this is building up to has him admittedly scared, because everything Nathan said had already been so bad, so how can it possibly get worse?

“Yeah, the Dark Room,” Nathan confirms slowly. “Remember what I said earlier about the illegal stuff? It happened in there.”

“And...where is it now?”

“Still here. Maybe. I don't know. How powerful was the storm?”

Warren winces at the mention of the storm, but is quick to collect himself because he’s had enough of looking like a complete wimp in Nathan’s presence. “Very.”

“Then I’m not sure,” is all Nathan offers.

Warren lets out a long, shaky breath. Taking in everything Nathan just said is a very hard pill to swallow. He’s still not so sure where Nathan lays, and he can’t find the words to express himself. His thoughts are too jumbled and he feels like he’s gonna pass out, because all this conversation did for him was up his list of questions to damn near infinite, and now he’s dizzy and confused and _Wow, is it hot in here or is it just him_?

Warren decides to _really_ look at Nathan, _really_ study him for the first time since everything has happened, and he can see Nathan’s hands shake by his sides, fingers forming into fists and then relaxing repeatedly as if he’s trying hard not to let anything other than his cold exterior show. He can see the way Nathan’s eyes are trying to avoid him at all costs, as if even looking at him will build up some sort of unwanted emotion in his stomach, as if something is bothering him.

And Warren? He makes his decision on what he wants to do right then.

“Can you,” Warren fixates his gaze to the window, not sure how  this question is going to make Nathan react, “can you take me there? To the Dark Room?”

Nathan stays silent for so long after what Warren’s said that he eventually has to look over and see if Nathan actually heard it. He’s sitting there, staring at Warren, just as confused and wide-eyed as a small child. His mouth is parted as if he wants to say something, but nothing is coming out and he isn’t so sure if it's because Nathan’s doesn’t know what to say or because of something else entirely.

“Why would you wanna go?” Nathan finally lets out, expression guarded.  

“Because if… what you say is true,” says Warren, “then we need to go there.”

“But _why_ the fuck do you—”

“I need to see it, Nathan. Mr. Jefferson tried to _kill_ you, this whole situation is sketchy, and I just need to _know_. I know you don’t trust me yet, and I’m still unsure if I trust you, but we can meet on a middle ground, can't we? You owe me that just as much as I owe you a chance to explain everything.”

Nathan stares at Warren with a concentrated gaze, expression blank and hands balling up at his sides. Warren knows what he’s doing—he’s picking him apart, trying to see what his intent really is—and maybe Warren should be mad that Nathan still thinks he’s out to get him, but he finds that, despite everything, he isn’t.

“Okay,” Nathan agrees, and Warren lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was even holding in. “Fine. I’ll take you.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UHMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM anyway thank u to my one and only hoe [gunophilia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gunophilia/pseuds/gunophilia) for helping me!! like not to be dramatic but i really would die without u. love u lots!!!
> 
> also, real quick: another BIG thank you to everyone who's supporting the fic and encouraging me to write. you guys are so kind and cute <33 I hope you have a good day! (or night or evening)


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